


Jo-ha-kyū

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Angst, Depression, First Time, M/M, Moving On, Mutual Pining, Regret, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:50:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The beginning, break and rapid. </p><p>After the events that night in Hannibal Lecter's home, Will attempts to move on, though with great difficulty. Hannibal comes back, bearing gifts and vague gestures of contrition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so it's my first attempt at writing in a while, so I'm a bit rusty. Also this is essentially a very self indulgent story in which Will's house breaks down and Hannibal, in an attempt to put himself back in Will's good books, tries to help. It runs within the Red Dragon book and verse, but takes its own course. 
> 
> Please excuse any britishisms you might find and I'd very much appreciate a beta if anyone is interested. <3

**Jo-ha-kyū**

 

_Put your head back, close your eyes and wade into the quiet of the stream_

There are warnings of a storm. Not that Will finds himself heeding them, watching a slick of oil pool against a crevice he has made in the sand. There are always storms, this part of the year, warnings following like a vague afterthought, an addendum tacked on in case the notion of boarding up for the next week or two isn’t taken in any conceivable consideration.

Perhaps in cases such as now, as he reclines back on his haunches, watching the waves lap against the shore. The radio crackles on, though a fuzzy hum under the echoing froth, dissolving in the sand and Will flicks away at a few grains lodged in his knees, thumbing at the grooves indented in his skin, red raw and aching. He assumes they’d fall through, the half assed assumptions of another rainfall, though gazing up at the clouds, just on the verge of looming, they might just be right.

In any case, he feels like shit. The need for alarm hums under his skin, indistinct and he falls back against the beach, the wash of white from the sky stark behind his eyelids. Distantly the dogs yap away at each other, and he naps to the image of rainstorms driving down, and the shiver of puddles brimming over into flood.

When he wakes, his feet are damp, his toes half immersed in salt water. The spent waves are lapping stronger now, breaking off each other as they emerge closer and closer to his little patch of privacy. Will sits up, thumbing a grain or two from his eyes before spotting the dogs snoozing in a huddle just to the left of him. Must’ve fallen asleep he thinks groggily, though for how long he can’t be sure, the sky’s barely touching grey. He heads back with the dogs a moment later, the ramshackle, shit hole of a den he calls home a small trek from the golden thatch of beach he resides on.

It surrounds a small rock pool, clear as cut glass, glistening under the dewy sun, though today it brims violently, the large slabs of stone slicing the puddles as they pool over its edge. It’s a slight distance away, though no more troublesome than the span of greenery behind his house in Wolftrap. The dogs like it here though, and he can’t quite find fault with Florida yet, choosing wisely to bask in a forced level of ignorance concerning the locals and their titters.

The radio’s still humming by the time he reaches home and he barely catches the tinny voice of the commenter before he shuts it off, climbing onto the rickety porch that creeks beneath his feet, bowed from long years of damp seeped in its grain. The door takes a kicking to open, and the dogs paw at it, twisting between his legs as he shimmies the thing open and lets them in. It crunches against the wood as he scraps it shut behind him, securing the latch and flicking the light on.

By this hour, he half expects a figure, lurking quietly in the corner of his vision, perched heedlessly in his arm chair, just shy of the budding light above them. But he sees none. He isn’t sure if it brings comfort. It ought to now. But Honey, his Labrador mix, bounds over and curls within it and he can see nothing more than light. Life is strange now, he supposes genially. But moderate. Life is continuing and if he is bitter, he doesn’t let himself acknowledge it. He buries it down deep within the chasms of his psyche till it is no longer a contained figment of him.

His feet are clammy, and the sand stings the arches of his toes so he grabs a towel from the laundry bin in the side closetand towels them off. It’d be nice to sleep he thinks offhandedly, rubbing at his eyes. Sleep for a solid night and he considers the possibility before glancing at the phone, at the red light that’s been on for three days now, blinking at him for receipt. He knows what it is though, can feel the acquiescence thrumming under his bones, within the gaps between sinew and flesh. And yet he can’t summon the energy to acknowledge it.

So he swallows three aspirin dry, and heads to bed, the powder clinging to the back of his throat, something to focus on. The sheets smell of sweat and scalp oil, but it lulls him in regardless and he drifts to the bellow of the waves and the thought that when he wakes, he could already be dead, submerged under his own ocean.

The next day, he decides to go fishing, though judging by the sudden torrential downpour and the state of wind, he reconsiders and heads into town instead. There’s not much left to survive on, his cupboards bare and pantry barren. There’s half a six pack and a stale piece of cheese stagnating in the bottom of his fridge. He’s not too mindful however of the empty bottles surrounding his trash bin; he tries not to count them. Will shoves on a shirt, after an inconspicuous sniff, and runs a toothbrush over his molars, gargling as he avoids his eyes in the mirror.

The dogs rear their heads when he heads toward the door, the two clambering up and around.

“Not today,” He murmurs, scratching behind Alfie’s ear, a German shepherd he found wandering further down west, a scraggly bit of rope tied round his neck. He sheds like a son of a bitch but knows how to read Will aptly and he can’t ask much more in a friend. The two whine for a minute longer before letting him leave. He won’t be a minute he tells himself, strapping in his station wagon before he changes his mind and falls asleep with yet another stomach full of warm beer. He cranks the gear and pulls out. There’s an old pack of pepcid in the glove compartment, slightly dewy under his thumb and he chews on two, thumping at the burning in his chest as he drives up to the store.

His phone rings once and cuts off. He doesn’t look at it, locking it in next to the antacids. He doesn’t need to deal with that now.

It’s sparse thank god, only a few braving the rain scattered amongst the block. The smart ones are at home, tucked away with families, tinkering with radiators. Will shuts off the engine outside the convenience store, watching the fat droplets of rain skid down the pane and cut into the wiper. His shoes squeak against the linoleum when he enters and it very suddenly reminds him of the kitchen back with his Dad. Beige, just shy of custard, curling off the edges of the cabinets. He would take his shoes off, sliding around in his socks, skating across the sheet as if it were ice. It would stick to his feet in certain places, bubbles of popped plastic from the hot oil his father dropped accidently when they cooked.

He doesn’t get much in the end, some bread, tins of dog food, a six pack and a bottle of single malt. He’ll survive on that till the end of the week.

When he steps outside, someone is looking in his car.

It’s a man, hunched slightly, old. Will clears his throat, agitated.

“Can I help you?”

The man turns, peering at Will, eyes beady under the folds of aged skin. “Something was buzzing in your car.” He turns, glaring suspiciously, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He leaves behind a thin sheen of snot. “Could’ve been something dangerous. Like a bomb.”

“You’re kidding me.” Will opens his car, throwing in the groceries in the back seat. “Anything else?”

The man hawks a glob of phlegm to the far left and shrugs his shoulder. “Naw. Can’t be too careful with these things though.” He has that old worldly drawl, southern perhaps, almost nasal as he drawls deep on the vowels.

Will doesn’t respond, feeling the agitation well in his blood, in the pockets of oxygen, starving him of breath. _He_ would’ve cut his tongue out, despite the frequent misgivings of the elderly, tore the appendage from its frenulum, and snapped the sinews, sawing through them like gum. Sauté it in butter with onion, garlic and sage. Will forces himself to be more forgiving however, and when he pulls up at a traffic light, he checks his phone. Four missed calls. Three from Jack, one number unknown. He isn’t as nervous as he ought to be.

Alfie and Honey bombard him when he gets home. They’re sitting on the porch, tails thumping when he parks up, their grubby paws leaving streaks of mud across his thighs, caked into the creases of his trousers. He pauses and sets the groceries down on the deck. The door is open.

Will approaches and gives it a tug. The thing swings effortlessly, softly on its hinges, gliding across the wood like air. There are grooves in the deck from when the door’s dug into it, splintering the wood panels, but it seems to ghost across it, barely skimming the surface. Will looks at the hinges and he glimpses a sheen of oil; gives it a sniff. WD-40. It glistens on the hinge pin, tacky against his thumb and he steps back, glancing around the front, the windows, the decking, around the back. All seems clear.

Honey whines behind him, a soft pitiful sound and he scratches her head, absentmindedly, thumbing her ears when she butts against his knee.

Something gnaws deep in his gut, thrumming painfully, and the acknowledgment aches like a bitch. It prickles behind his eyes and the knots, the numb thatch of skin that pulls taunt across his stomach, suddenly itches.

He roots through the trunk of his car and pulls out the sledgehammer he keeps hidden under the tin shelf of his tool box. He goes inside, slowly.

The living room is empty, everything left in place, not a hair touched. The kitchen’s the same. Upstairs is as rumpled as he left it and he grabs the beretta hidden in his beside drawer, a blanket, a can opener and departs.

That night he sleeps in the car, the dogs bundled in the back seat, licking out dog food from the cans, shedding fur all over his blanket. Will sits in front, eyes tight as they stare at the front door, willing for some sort of change, for the perpetrator to walk right out so he can snap his neck. His fingers tremble around the bottle of whisky, and he tugs it back up to his mouth, swallowing down another mouthful. His gums burn afterwards and he runs his tongue over his teeth, furred as night draws on.

When he wakes his mouth feels like cotton and Alfie’s gnawing on the seat. The air smells like stale sweat and his skin feels tacky, moist in dark patches.

Inside remains untouched, and Will spends the day repairing the door himself. He vacuums, washes the sheets and empties the laundry bin. By the end of the day the house smells like bleach and his fingers are cracked in the knuckles. He showers, fixes his dogs up with dinner and passes out on the couch, wrapped tight in a blanket, snug.

When he dreams, he sees fire, black plumes of smoke bellowing up into the sky. He sees his dogs charred and a figure emerging, wrapping coal black fingers around his face, thumbs gentle against his eye sockets. And when they push in, he bites his tongue and swallows.

The storm warnings persist but the atmosphere is lazy, idle in response to the overstated calls for caution. Will stays on the sofa and listens to the wind beat against his home. His nose is pressed into the cushions, face buried between arm and back and he aches for drink. The dogs whine but do nothing, gnawing at old bones. Distantly, he hears his phone ring. It hums on the table and he turns over, watching the device shimmy across the surface before stopping. Alfie regards him indifferently and turns back to his chew toy, clearly unimpressed.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Will mumbles, watching the two dogs, slumped on the floor. “We’re not in a hurry are we?”

Alfie’s ears perk, and he turns toward the door. Evidently he disagrees. Will watches the screen panel, for a shadow of movement, his knuckles shivering under the blanket. A fly buzzes above them, shifting in sporadic zigzags.

There’s a bark, neither from Honey nor Alfie and Will sits up, startled.

The dogs rush the door but Will whistles at them. “No. Sit.”

True to theory, there’s a dog on the porch. A mutt, a bloodhound cross he assumes. The dog eyes him warily, it’s neck bare, a red piece of meat snug between both paws as it chews on it. Honey noses the back of Will’s knee and it nearly buckles from the pressure. Ahead, across onto the barren road leading into town, he spots a Volvo, rust red. It drives off before Will can shout and it leaves his heart racing. The dog licks their muzzle and growls when Honey tries to push past Will. He shuts them in, staring down at the animal on his porch, confused and no less troubled at the sight.

“Where’d you come from?” He sits down, and the dog ignores him. “Did someone leave you here?”

There’s no identification though. He’ll check for a chip later but regardless of that fact, someone sought Will out with purpose. Or, he considers blithely, it’s merely a happy coincidence.

It takes just over an hour for the dog to warm to Will, letting him stroke over his head, thumb at the ears. It’s a boy, and he puts his head in Will’s lap, whining ineffectively and he can’t help but sympathise.

“Come on, let’s go in.” 

****

He calls him Copper. He recognises the cliché but thinks it suits him, Copper’s dewy brown eyes staring at him despondently from his makeshift bed. Will’s locked Honey and Alfie in the kitchen until they can be integrated properly but he’s optimistic. That look of listless sympathy Copper has reminds him of Winston, and the regret that washes over Will tastes bitter.

He calls the animal shelters within his vicinity, asking if anyone had filed a missing dog report. Nothing comes up and he assumes everyone is preoccupied with the rain rather than whether or not a dog had disappeared from its family home. That or Copper’s his own form of a John Doe.

Will tries not to think of the other possibility.

This time, when Jack calls, Will declines it and leaves the phone in his kitchen drawer. He makes himself whatever he has in the cupboard and sits on the couch with a two fingers of whisky, the bottle within reach, and watches the door.

Outside, the wind whips against rotting wood and the birds take shelter from impending devastation. He can smell the ozone, above the burn of scotch in the back of his throat, and the chalky, sweet smell of damp, mold crawling up his walls around the window frames. His mouth waters at the scent and chest tightens in rebuttal, like a child gnawing on chalk sticks. He drinks till he’s unconscious, and misses Copper crawling up onto the couch, his head in Will’s lap. 

****

“Will, I don’t want to resort to this but if you don’t answer your goddamn phone I will be forced to take action. Don’t think I can’t find where you live, you’re not that original.”

Jack’s voice rasps across the vowels, grating across each pronunciation and it jars Will deep, pulling at his stomach, curdling with guilt. Jack’s as fucked as he is, blame holds no place in their now redundant acquaintance but listening to that broken baritone casts shadow on their culpability and Will suddenly feels shamed.

It should be funny, really.

In the end, he does answer the call. Eventually, after the thunder’s started and all have taken to sheltering behind windows and slated rooftops. Jack phones once this time, late in the evening after Will’s prepared dinner for the dogs, tinkering with a fishing lure. He answers amicably enough, and it surprises them both.

“Will.”

“Jack.”

“How are you?”

“Holding up. And yourself?” He catches the thread on the hook.

“Peachy. You haven’t been easy to get a hold of,” Jack responds, affable despite the reproving undertone. “Would’ve thought you’ve been avoiding me.”

Will wants to laugh at that. “I wouldn’t exactly go that far.”

There’s a faint rustling over the phone, a slight shuffling perhaps and Will wonders if Jack’s in his office, manoeuvring his bulk from behind the desk, maybe browsing through files. The office feels so far away in this one indistinct moment, an intermittent image of grey, frustration drawn out into nights of panic and disquiet. Will sees himself now, opposite Jack, both worn with scars almost too tight for their skin, like the wound will stretch itself around them, open and bleed across the linoleum.

Jack blows out a sigh, tired. “I will assume you know why I’m calling. If you don’t then, I’m surprised.” He hesitates, and Will chews on the inside of his cheek. “It’s about Dr Du Maurier.”

“Bedelia Du Maurier,” Will intones, staring down at a burn mark in the floor. He’d dropped a cigarette, one he’d allowed himself back when his vices seemed less like a transgression, and more cathartic in their medium. Not that therapy ever helped, even in his form of self healing. He’d smoked his way through a pack, drank himself blind and passed out on the kitchen floor, his thumb worrying blindly at the gauze across his stomach.

He ought to patch it up, though the effort seems wasted. The mark blackens around the edges, and Will can see the crust of burnt plastic, yellowed and hollow.

“Dr Du Maurier’s been spotted not far off Baltimore.”

Baltimore. Will huffs. “Animals usually leave home when they’re about to die.”

“Well Dr Du Maurier’s neither an animal nor dead.”

“Not yet confirmed dead, Jack. You know as well as I do she has an expiration date. We all did.”

Something catches in Jack’s voice, his tone hardening a fraction. “And we surpassed ours. Or I did. And Dr Bloom.” He pauses. “Could never quite tell with you.”

Will scratches his nails across the wooden grain in his table, tracing the lines. Somewhere, one of the dogs fart. “Nice to know I still have your utmost confidence. Especially concerning my mortality.” He tries not to think about Alana.

“You know I’ve always rated you Will, don’t give me that bullshit or I wouldn’t be phoning you now.”

“You’re phoning because you’re at a dead end. Again. As you are always.” The animosity flows naturally and he knows he ought to reign it in but can’t find the capability. “And you need _my_ help.”

Jack laughs. “You’ve certainly got a high opinion of yourself. I don’t need your help Will, well at least not yet. Besides I doubt anyone in their right mind would consider letting you within a foot of the bureau let alone look at a damn file.”

“Then why’re you calling?”

“Contrary to what you think Will, I don’t actually want you dead. I might not know you anymore, I might not entirely believe what it is you have to say anymore, and I’m sure as hell the feelings are returned, but I don’t want you dead, least of all at the hands of Hannibal Lecter.”

Will glances through to the hallway, at the door. “So do you think he’s back?”

Jack sighs, and Will can sense the exhaustion, the fatigue gnawing at old bones till they give. “I don’t know. What I do know is that we saw Du Maurier, we’re looking at passports, security, surveillance, the lot. Combing through that but we’re still up short.”

“When was she seen?”

“Four days ago.”

“She’d be long gone by then.”

“So what? We either wait for another slip up or a body?”

“You’re waiting for something Jack,” Will responds quietly. “I don’t know what though.”

There’s a moment of silence, a pause even, stretching out between the two. Will closes his eyes and he can see Jack before him, behind his desk, sunken in.

“I want you to be careful. That’s all.”

“I am careful.”

“You weren’t last time.” He tacks on an amendment. “ _We_ weren’t. If he is back, I don’t know if you’ll escape with a colostomy this time. Who knows?”

Will has to laugh at that. He doesn’t mention the extensive physiotherapy Jack needed to even try and form a word, let alone hold a conversation. Will isn’t the only one still reaping the repercussions of their mistake. The shrapnel’s still embedded. “Who knows.”

“Well,” Jack starts, clearing his throat. “I’m keeping you updated, whether you like it or not.”

“She’s probably gone, there’s not much you’re going to be able to do.”

“That’s not the point Will, and you know it.”

Later, when the rain dies down into a sputter, Will takes the dogs out for a run. He’s sitting on the porch, watching them roll in the damp sand. The air feels thick, humid almost and it curdles in his chest, tight like he’s breathing through cotton. He goes over Jack’s words, Bedelia’s face coming to mind, impassive. Her eyes are like frosted glass but beneath, Will always thought she seemed amused, perhaps beguiled by those around her, so foolish in their endeavours. He imagines that’s what Hannibal feels most of the time. They’d certainly make for an attractive couple. Elegant, Classy. She’d match him intellectually, and in terms of physicality, they were on par. It’d feel right.

He ignores the tightening in his chest and calls his dogs in.

In the bedside drawer, in his desolate bedroom, he upends the contents of the third draw on his bed, fishing for a beige envelope. It crinkles in his hand, the glue fastening the opening together worn from handling. On the front, Bedelia Du Maurier’s scrawl glares at him. Her handwriting is as impeccable as Hannibal’s. Caustically, he considers their inevitable companionship, a rather ineffective assumption after they’d caught on she had disappeared almost as readily as Hannibal had.

The letter arrived two weeks ago postmarked from Sicily, and in succession, as he’d expect no less from Hannibal’s allure of the coincidental, the city of Palermo.

He turns it over in his palms, feeling agitated, stuffed like he’s full to burst. The letter singes his palms and he leaves it where it is and heads downstairs. It will wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi sorry it's late, I'm hoping to have an update done at least once a week. Keeps me busy. :) And thank you for the lovely comments, it really makes my day reading them! Once again I'm sorry if there are any britishisms I don't have a beta for it but I'm working on it <3

_“Were you aware of Dr Lecter’s intentions that night Mr Graham?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And how did that come about?”_

_“In one way or another, he told me.”_

_“Would you call it entrapment? You and Mr Crawford setting this particular scenario up in which to capture Dr Lecter?”_

_“No. I can’t say it was.”_

_“Could you perhaps then explain why he would tell you?”_

_“He was labouring under the assumption we were friends.”_

_“Maybe more?”_

He doesn’t respond to that, or rather he doesn’t remember if it were possible to. He remembers the way the gash tugged at his stomach though, stretched around the opening of his colostomy bag. It crinkled against his skin, heavy, and he could smell the pungent odour of sweat and waste, bile clinging to the back of his throat.

_“Were you aware of Dr Lecter’s feelings toward you? Platonically or otherwise, Mr Graham?”_

He remembers going home after the trial, standing naked in his bathroom as he stares the bandages. There are flecks of blood on the plaster, fresh. It takes his all not to sink his nails in and claw himself open, spread wide for Hannibal in contrition, if only metaphorically. He thinks he’d relish the sight of his guts spilling across the bathroom floor, drowning. It seems reverent, almost sacrificial.  

_“Mr Graham, please answer the question.”_

_“No. No I did not.”_

He attempts to open Bedelia’s letter later in the day, but he panics and disregards the thought completely. If Hannibal is back, and he isn’t disputing the possibility, it wouldn’t be too arduous a task to find Will. He hasn’t exactly taken any lengthy precautions to ensure his complete departure, and in succession, all ties to Hannibal Lecter severed or not. Dr Du Maurier’s letter speaks volumes on that.

It burns though. The letter, or perhaps the anticipation of what it could hold. The thought sears through him at the worst possible time, scathing as it tugs on that bundle of fear Will tucked away when Hannibal drove his knife in. He cut like butter, barely a whisper of resistance and he could barely register the pain before the sensation of slipping caught him. He burned, his blood felt hot between his fingers, under his nails, smouldering as he held himself shut.

The memory of Hannibal’s shirt is as sharp as ever, and of all things to recall he’s never been able to figure out why that held the most. He can feel it even now, bunched up and sodden in his hands. Tactile in the way cloth feels, grounding. Above the acrid stench of blood, Will can smell Hannibal.

Jack doesn’t ring, and the quiet is for once unsettling. He goes for a run, and sits on the edge of the shore, just before the water lips against the sand in waves. The air is thick, suffocating, and damp grows in his chest, just behind his ribs. The coughs hurt his back, as he spits up phlegm and thumps his fist against his sternum in an attempt to keep the bile down. A mixture of humidity and anxiety, his body is retaliating against his unyielding ignorance concerning Hannibal.

Copper brushes up against him, tired, and Will forgets that he’s supposed to call the shelters again. He looks up, across onto the asphalt a distance away, and squints. The red Volvo is parked up, and a figure watches him from the window. Tremors run up Will’s arms, into his shoulders and he’s shaking when he gets to his feet.

“Alfie, Honey- Come!”

His whistle is sharp, broken and they run off as fast as possible together.

He locks the doors and windows and pushes the side cabinet against it. He sits up all night on the couch, the dogs surrounding him, confused by their owner’s unease. He drinks whisky fast, clutching the neck of the bottle tight, his gun on one side, the letter on the other.

This time, he doesn’t panic when he opens it.

_Will Graham,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Or at least within the proximity of its concept. Hopefully by the time this reaches you I will be away again, and you will have understood the situation in regards to Dr Hannibal Lecter._

_I’m writing, if not to absolve a form of guilt I’m feeling concerning what had happened, then to alert you about Hannibal. What occurred that night was out of anyone’s hands, though I’m sure you are well aware of that. Hannibal is nothing if not unpredictable._

_I left with him, and I still hold by that decision, I don’t regret it. But though I may owe you an explanation, in all probability, you already know why I did so. I don’t need to justify my actions, least of all not to you, you are aware of his capabilities and the allure that draws us to his personality. He is indecipherable, and my company with him has been an insight. I was able to understand him better, but in all consideration I feel as though my company with him will not benefit us any longer. From that, I decided to terminate our arrangement, and Hannibal has so far found no problem with my decision._

_It’s safe to say I will not be returning to America, unless I have to. For any other reason, I’ll leave to your imagination. Hannibal himself has not expressed a particular desire to return back, though if I felt I knew him before, I know him even less now concerning his stance on both yourself and your relationship. It’s because of this I am writing to you, as perhaps a warning, though the phrasing leaves much to be desired._

_Will, Hannibal has not mentioned you much, if not at all. He does however think about you, though in what way I can’t tell. I am aware of his intention to either make amends or return to the scene in which you were damaged. He is attempting to repair something that’s possibly not worth salvaging. If it is not for you, then it’s for his own peace of mind._

_I can’t say I am completely certain about what’s to come in the next few months. Hannibal is changeable. He has been nothing but courteous, and certainly forgiving of any transgression that may have happened during our absence. However I try not to think about his hobbies, or where he disappears to during the night._

_I can’t empathise with Hannibal concerning you, nor do I particularly pity him. My feelings toward you are the same. Those who were involved, if unwittingly within your game, I am sympathetic toward, particularly in regard to Dr Bloom and Miss Hobbs._

_Hannibal was indeed enamoured, with both himself and the situation forming around him. You know how well his control extends, however you had hurt him. And the ability to do that requires Hannibal to leave himself vulnerable. His reaction was not all done in cold blood or self congratulation. It did not come in self indulgence, and I feel that this may not come as a comfort to you, but you had affected him._

_Whether he has affected you or not remains to be seen._

_If I owe you anything Will Graham, it is a warning. As someone who was able to see past Hannibal’s person suit along with you, I owe you this as an act of preservation. Hannibal is coming. It is clear he misses you. It can be said that we have the gift of hindsight. If you ever had a chance to reconstruct what had happened, or seek the reckoning you desire, it is within your ability to do so now._

_I can only wish you luck Will, and hope that whatever you decide does not lead you to an unwanted death. If it does not, and Hannibal is away irrevocably, then it would be good to see you, and share a drink. It is not an obligation, but it would be a pleasure._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr Bedelia Du Maurier_

Will reads it over again, and a third time before crumpling the paper in his fist, biting down hard on the inside of his lip. There’s a buzzing in his head, crisp like static and his eyes feel swollen. He pushes the balls of his hands against his eyelids until they throb and he chokes out a sob, a wheezing breath that wobbles out of his lungs, pitiful.

He should’ve known. Maybe he did all along, the concept sitting in the back of his mind, festering. He isn’t surprised.

Copper yawns, and Will’s eyes sting suddenly, his jaw aching. In the corner of his eye a shadow lurks, just offside. It wraps around him, touching the back of his neck reverently, and it seeps into his pores, an oil spill across his expanse.

In his mind, he sees the red Volvo, stationary on the road. Hannibal watches him from it, calmly, like Will is a study of something enthralling. He always had that look, of quiet veneration whenever Will was near. Will returned the gaze just as intensely, par for par, caught in the reverie they had built up around them on impulse or desire, perhaps an amalgam of both. Hannibal was interesting, and intoxicating. It hurts thinking about him.

The compulsion to scream takes him hard, caught in his throat and he swallows dryly and buries his head in his hands. Death is apparent, if he had managed to glean anything from Bedelia’s letter, it is the belief that Hannibal is near, if not already upon him. The thought poisons him, and Will curls up on the sofa, his head tucked into the arm until he’s close to choking.

He should call Jack. Not out of any misplaced sense of loyalty to the man, despite their shared mutilation, but because it just seemed like the thing to do. Common sense dictates Jack be the one to call.

It won’t do much. Hannibal’s coming regardless, and there’s only so much Jack can do at the moment, his power somewhat stunted in his field. Will chalks it up to murphy ’s law and gets on with himself.

He burns the letter with a lighter over the kitchen sink. Watches it char away, envelope and all. It seems like a disservice to the doctor, but despite this he can’t come up with a reason to keep it. There’s no sentiment lost, Bedelia is probably dead.

The rain is relentless. There’s a leak in his roof, over his kitchen. It puddles in a bucket, slow but persistent. He can hear the drops echo when he’s asleep on the couch, every other second on clockwork.

He needs to run to the store, to pick up supplies and dog food. New locks for the doors, tiles for the roof, painkillers. His scar itches insistently, relentless as it aches for attention and he kneads at it now and then to relive the pressure. He can’t scratch the surface skin without cringing, the scar numb in a way that sets his teeth on edge. He could pinch the bumps, snip into them and only feel the faintest of sensations. It repulses him. There’s a black wire prodding out underneath the tissue, thick like fishing line. It’s a stitch he was supposed to have taken out once the scar had healed, but by then he had left Virginia and the bumps had grown over the opening. He should cut it out, but the thought makes him sick.

Will picks up the phone instead. Debates calling Jack for a moment before forgoing the idea. If Jack had information he would contact him, there’s no doubt there. He thumbs the buttons idly, considering.

Alana picks up on the third ring. The sound of her voice surprises him, and he’s unprepared for the onslaught of emotion he suddenly has. She feels like a warm memory, glazed with nostalgia that didn’t quite suit but felt nice.

“Alana Bloom.”

The words die on his tongue and he chokes out a vague hello.

“Will?”

“Hey. Sorry, yeah it’s me, hi.”

She laughs softly. “Hey.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good,” she replies. “How’s Florida?”

Will wanders into the sitting room, pulling a beer from the fridge, the cheap kind he buys by the bulk. It clings unpleasantly to the back of his throat. He opens the front door and the dogs rush past him.

“Very wet. It’s been raining.”

He sits on the dock, knees drawn up. Alana makes a disproving noise, but there’s a chuckle tacked on. “Well, Florida isn’t exactly known for its reliable climate. I’m surprised you’re not up to your knees yet.”

“Getting there.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the keys.”

“You should visit. Bring Applesauce. She can meet the others.” He doesn’t bother disguising the whimsy in his voice, he doesn’t expect Alana would feel too bad about it.

“How many do you have now?”

“Three. Alfie, Honey and Copper. How’s Applesauce?”

“She’s great.” Will watches the sky, swigging at his beer. It’s clear tonight, and almost stiflingly warm. Sweat beads on the bridge of his nose, across his chin. “She doesn’t get out as much lately but we’re working on it.” He’s picturing her running her hands across Applesauce’s nape, curled on the couch, pinot noir in hand. Enjoying the peace as it comes, savouring.

He’s only too acutely aware of the romanticised image he has of Alana. She’s untouchable in his mind’s eye, always has been to his influence. In some ways it helped, she was an unwavering presence in his life, perhaps his only point of navigation. She deserved better, far better than Will’s neurosis, but in turn she could’ve found better things to do than try and fix him. They’ve come to a happy medium though, still within the ability to appreciate each other’s company. He really does love her.

He watches Honey roll in the sand and takes another sip. It’s rubbery in his mouth, the foam tacky. “How,” he starts, trying to find the right words. “How’s the physiotherapy going?”

Alana hums agreeably. “Well, it’s going well. I’m using a cane on colder days but it’s gone remarkably well considering.” She pauses, considering. “I’m back at work, I’m up for tenure at John Hopkins.”

“That’s great,” Will replies genuinely. “Congratulations.”

She laughs. “Thanks. Things are ok. Can I ask how they are with you? Or are we going to avoid that subject?”

“Feel free to avoid.”

“Will.”

Alfie comes up to him, nuzzling his legs before running inside. The air thickens, the humidity rising and he can almost smell the approach of rain. He goes to get another beer, pulling two more bottles out and perching back down on the deck. “It’s fine. I like it here. I’m sleeping, I can fish. The dogs are happy.”

“It’s good you’re sleeping.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Hmm. No nightmares.” The lie slips effortlessly. “It’s comfortable.”

“You can appreciate that.” He imagines she’s pleased with that answer but he can’t be entirely sure. Will can see her at John Hopkins, lecturing the students saliently, with acute clarity; the image is so vivid. “I’m happy for you.”

“I should be saying the same,” he responds blithely. “You’ve always been good at what you do.”

“That’s always good to know,” she teases.

“Hm.” He wants to bring up Hannibal, but isn’t sure how. Or whether it’s the best thing to do, all things considering. “You haven’t heard from Jack have you?” It’s a copout and they both know it.

“I have not, as a matter of fact. Have you?”

“I haven’t no.”

“That’s probably a good sign then.”

“Do you think so?”

There’s something tense in Alana’s voice. “I have to hope so. And I hope you do too.”

_If he was back though..._ He wants to ask. If he was back what would you do?

Probably nothing, he reasons. Hannibal isn’t interested in her role anymore, she holds no significant point in their now redundant relations. She owes nothing to Hannibal, no alibi, no emotional assurance, no leverage. In a way it’s good, she is safe.

He’s never felt more isolated.

“Will,” Alana starts. “You’re in a good place. Things are moving on.” She trails off, indecisive. “I don’t know how to help.”

“We’re fine. I’m ok. I don’t think about it anymore.”

“Really? Because I do. I don’t want to but I do. He was a charming man.”

Will feels ill. “Alana.”

“He was,” she insists. “And you know it. That doesn’t change what happened though.”

“What he did to you...” She had lain in the road, blinded with rain as he had walked past.

“It doesn’t matter now. It’s done.” There’s a tight edge in her voice, now as the conversation deepens into something regrettable. “We’ve moving on.”

Will tips his bottle over and watches the last remains of his beer froth out onto the deck. It slides into the cracks between the boards, and he opens another one, thumbing off the condensation beading at the neck.

“It was good talking to you,” he says finally, tugging on a thread in his shorts. “Really.”

“You should visit. Bring the dogs. Maryland misses you.”

“Sounds like an idea.”

“I’ll talk to you later Will.”

“Bye Alana.”

He waits outside until the air bites and the waves move quicker. The dogs are easy to round in but sand is matted in their fur and the stench of sea water follows them brusquely. On his fifth bottle, Will drags out a portable bath and hoses them down on the deck, towelling the dogs dry and ushering them into the sitting room where they lie in a heap on the floor. He’s comforted somehow, by the timbre of Alana’s voice; the way she insists he’ll be ok. He takes the assertion as hope, that maybe one day he will be. If only for her sake.

The door is unlocked. And he’s only too acutely aware that it could swing open, that the hinges wouldn’t creek anymore, that the deck won’t scrape against the door edge. A premeditated act, in what he can only assume as intent to harm. Will can’t be entirely sure however. Hannibal’s surprised him with less.

Regardless, he sleeps soundly and dreamlessly.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. Please forgive any britishisms you may find, and enjoy :)
> 
> I've re-wrote this chapter just because I wasn't entirely satisfied but it's fine now! <3

The weather breaks, the clouds dispelling. The air clears up for a bit, breathable, and Will takes it as read, packs his gear and goes fishing. He drives a little down west, and sets up for the day, hidden close to a secluded alcove. Puts out the rod holders and the jigs, his cooler, lure box and buckets. And then he sits, on his rickety fold away chair and waits.

It’d be easier with a boat of his own, preferable, but his funds haven’t quite recovered from his rather instantaneous move and he doesn’t see them improving any time soon. He’s not worried, he’s never lived beyond his means, he can scrape by on basics. The emergency money he keeps tucked away in a separate account warms his thoughts though; a get out jail free card in case something comes up.

It’s been a few weeks, since his acknowledgement of Hannibal’s arrival. He can’t quite say he’s ready for it, there’s only so much he can do to mentally prepare himself for this.

He imagined, in a scenario he had constructed when things became too obscure for definition, that he would fish with the doctor. Calling it fancy now, but it certainly had its appeal during bleak times. Hannibal considered himself a hunter, not entirely dissimilar to a fisherman, but different in the ways that defined practise. Both lead to survival, and on another spectrum, death. Hannibal excels at his craft, it is built within his bones. Will lives on survival, on the notion that bad things do and will happen. His dad taught him well, back down south, where the air felt damp around him and the scent of motor oil lingered on his skin.

He’d envision Hannibal knee deep in the Piankatank river, the sunfish angling around his calves as they swim downstream in red streaks. Hannibal would be confident, assured as he is with almost anything he does. And Will would stand beside him, casting his lure and snagging it under the gills of his next catch.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly caustic, he’d imagine Abigail with them. He doesn’t sleep well on those nights.

The fish swim on, peaceful enough and when night comes he packs up and heads home, the bucket empty. He’s feeling calm however, like still waters; the anxiety brimming just under his skin paused long enough to give him a moment of clarity. The static has quietened down to something manageable, he can now comprehend his emotions and untangle them with due caution. He gets like this often enough, when things become too loud to decipher and his heart hammers within its cage. It’s easy enough to find stable ground when he’s not blinded by circumstance; the security behind his solitary lifestyle measured and thought out with considerable diligence.

He doesn’t say he’s not lonely. No one has ever asked if he was.

If someone had however, Will isn’t entirely sure he’d have an answer.

The roads are quiet, which is a delight. He comes up to his exit and pulls up toward his house soon enough. And very suddenly everything stills. The back of his neck freezes and his cheeks burn, hair spikes across his skin, up his elbows, sweat dampening under his arms. He nearly swerves off the road and pulls up quickly on the side, yanking the gear into park and slamming his hands on the wheel.

Down by the house, a little offside to the left, is the red Volvo. It’s parked parallel to his porch and the lights in his house are on.

Will can’t breathe. His lungs ache and very soon he’s close to passing out on the dashboard. His dad would yank his head down between his knees, thick fingers pressing into the back of his neck, kneading at the knobs of his spine as the panic ate into him like poison. Breathe Will you little fuck, breathe in slowly, one, two, three. Steady. His father was never brutal, never forceful. Will, the gangly, spineless thing he was would cry into his dad’s shirt and suffocate on his own neurosis.

He can hear his dad now, counting sternly, tired maybe from work, or from their shitty livelihood. The predictability of his father was an interesting thing, he wasn’t special in any way but he never seemed surprised with Will’s behaviour, however odd it may have been back then. He took it as read and accommodated aptly and Will only wishes he was here now, smacking him upside the head, telling him what to do.

His forehead collides with the steering wheel and eventually Will has his breathing under control. His palms are clenched tightly, white knuckled on the black rubber and he can smell the perspiration coming from his skin, sour and pungent.

Hannibal’s in his house, with his dogs. Hannibal Lecter has found him and is making contact. Will jerks up and scrambles for his cell, thumbing for Jack’s number. He hesitates, over the call icon.

_Jack Hannibal is back. Jack I withheld this information from you for good cause._

How would that conversation even begin? Is it necessary or have they now surpassed the need for such semantics? Will groans and rubs his eyes. He grabs his gun from the glove compartment and something in his chest trembles. His hands are steady, but his knees are shaking. His body is quivering, and sweat beads across his chin, on his upper lip.

It takes a minute to walk down to his house and he approaches the side before angling around to the front, ducking tight under the window until he reaches the porch. The door is shut, but the lights are on inside. He can hear one of the dogs bark, and it’s an alert enough for Hannibal, who’s probably prepared.

God. He’s not ready for this. His stomach aches, his scar throbbing insistently and he tucks his cell into his pocket and lifts the gun up, tightening his shoulders, bracing himself.

Will opens the door slowly and the sight is physically painful. He’s winded, buckling under his assertion that’s altogether so blindly true it eclipses any other possibility he had hampered on, clinging to with poorly considered hope. Hannibal sits, as calm as day on his couch and Will’s ribs tighten suddenly, like his lungs are expanding, alveoli scrambling to diffuse oxygen to his bloodstream.

“Hannibal,” he says and the thing in his chest comes to a rest, so sweet it hurt. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal looks up at him and smiles.

“Hello Will.”

He looks different. Not immensely so, but after a second the details come into focus, and the changes are present but slight. Will’s arms turn to water and he drops them to his side, staring at the man in front who rubs his fingers behind Copper’s ear like a blessing. The dogs surround him, nuzzling at his legs and Hannibal feeds them strips of meat from a plastic container.

“How...” Will starts, floundering as he tries to hone in on what’s happening. Finally, he manages to find his words and that dull ache in his throat lessens to something he can swallow. “What are you doing?”

Hannibal regards him smoothly, like he’s trying to usher a spooked horse, gently prod Will in his direction. Will suddenly feels so blindingly angry it takes a moment to respond, to map out his thought processes into something tangible and coherent.

“Get out.”

“That’s not very nice,” Hannibal responds, blithely. “I was hoping we could talk.”

Jesus, this man. Will’s entire body jerks, spasms with the force of holding in his immutable rage. “Talk? Fuck you! Get out of my house.”

Hannibal croons slightly at one of the dogs and it takes a moment before Will realises it’s not one of his.

“That’s not my-” he starts, cagey.

“Look again,” Hannibal allows, smiling gently. The dog turns toward Will and Will nearly keels over from surprise. Winston barks once, before accepting another morsel from Hannibal’s fingers.

“Winston.”

“He went by Hunter for a while, with his new owners. Terribly pedestrian,” Hannibal says, rubbing at his ear. He’s internally preening, it’s written in his posture, in the way he smiles lightly to himself with conceit.

He’s enjoying himself, perhaps he had foresaw Will’s reaction and Will can’t help but feel he has rushed into this without considering the repercussions. The gift of hindsight is few and far between but Will always had the benefit of it with regards to Hannibal. Why he had not utilised it now is beyond him. He feels the panic rise again, like acid burning through his oesophagus, and he squashes it down quickly, rallying on with as much force as he can muster.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the old moniker,” Hannibal comments, and glances at Will furtively, with quiet delight.

“You stole...” Will turns away, and he’s staring out the front door, his eyes swollen. “You stole him.”

“He was your dog.”

He has to laugh at that and it hurts. “To be fair I took him in the first place.”

“He is where he belongs, Will.”

It’s dark. The humidity has picked up and distantly, he can hear thunder. Will smells moisture, the approach of rain and turns back to Hannibal, who watches him with intent. Will takes the moment for study. There are no significant differences, from four years prior, no outward adjustment or disguise. But Will doesn’t suspect one would recognise Hannibal from a glance, the man always seemed changeable, adaptable to his surroundings and peers in both gesture and appearance. He’s dyed his hair and grown it out, and it slicks back against his scalp, curled slightly around his ears. Will sees him cutting it in the dim glow of a motel bathroom, scissors flush against skin, fibres running down the sink along with his box dye and split ends. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, scuffed around the elbows and a grey t-shirt, frayed at the collar, along with dark blue jeans and sneakers.

Perhaps the most worrying of changes is the shadow of scruff across his cheeks and chin, silver under the light. His nose has been elongated ever so slightly, the bridge altered to bring it forward and it changes the depth of his eyes, enough for a passing glance as a stranger. Painful maybe, and Will wonders which friend performed the surgery and if they’re still available to consult.

He swallows, his saliva tangy, an indication of vomit. “You look different.”

Hannibal’s gaze trails down his entire length and Will doesn’t flinch. “And you look well William.”

“Don’t start on the fucking pleasantries Dr Lecter, I didn’t invite you here.” The words are acerbic and he feels barbed, bitter down to his very core.

“And how could you? Up until a few weeks ago you would’ve had no clue as to my whereabouts.”

Will is seething. “Whose fault is that?” He accuses, indignant. “I thought it was obvious I wanted nothing to do with you anymore. In fact, you made that quite clear yourself.”

Hannibal stiffens slightly and turns his gaze back to Winston, who’s trailing after Alfie aimlessly. “I assure you Will,” he replies, “I’m well aware of that.” Will notes that, somewhat uncharacteristically, his tone is not standoffish, but almost genuinely contrite.

He’s at a loss though, on how to resolve this without putting a bullet between Hannibal’s eyes, regardless of how tempting the thought might be.

“I thought you’d appreciate the gesture.” Hannibal gestures to Winston. “He would be much happier here.”

“How philanthropic, Dr Lecter,” Will begins, refusing to concede to the man’s point, despite its vague and slightly immoral validity. “Taking another’s need into account so willingly.” A kernel of pragmatism implants itself amongst them though the rage and hatred and Will remembers his position in all of this.

“Philanthropy is a tedious concept Will; you of all would know that.” The barb cuts but remains unacknowledged.

“Get out.” The gun shakes in Will’s hand.

Hannibal’s eyes shift, down to his lips, calculating and he eventually rises, leaving the box of food down on the couch. He’s thinner, scrawny around the shoulders, almost concave but living as a wanted felon would do this Will imagines. It’s strange seeing Hannibal away from his comfort zone, and in that, his armour of plaid and silk suits. He’s shrunken, away from the grandeur of colour and splendour, the gestures behind the paisley and tartan patterns. The grandiose of his lifestyle is gone and Hannibal can no longer peacock around, preening under the attention of his social circle. He’s not plump on his questionable dietary habits and Will wants to tear open his shirt and shred his stomach to pieces, nuzzle the fat until it’s tender.

“As always, you become rude when you are frightened.”

Will bristles. Outside it starts to rain and the patter against the deck sounds deafening. He lifts the gun again. “One more word.”

“Will you call Jack Crawford?”

His thumb trembles and Hannibal notices. “One more word Dr Lecter.”

The weight of Hannibal’s gaze forces his resolve into something brittle and Will watches firmly as he walks past him. His fingers brush against Will’s shoulder and he’s gone. Will waits a minute, listening for the crank of the engine and the crunch of tires on sand before he exhales. And suddenly everything goes hazy around the edges and all too sharp in the middle. He collapses on his knees and lets out a mournful groan, and the dogs whine in unison.

They miss the stranger with the food and Will feels numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments guys! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little late, I've been busy preparing for university but it's coming along. Also, I've re plotted the story and it will run within Red Dragon but won't follow it canonically. It's going for about 12 chapters hopefully!

Will doesn’t sleep well. But when he does his dreams are sporadic, flitting from benign to hostile. He dreams of being hurt, and more often than not, eaten. He sees creatures sewn together in malignant shapes, with gnashing teeth and red eyes.

Last night he sleeps to the vision of himself as a boy, hopping over his father’s boat and swimming away in murky waters. It’s warm, stiflingly so and everything has a film of green to it, almost swamp like. There are weeds tangled in his hair that trail across his cheeks like fingers. An alligator catches up with him and bites him in half and he wakes up disorientated, nails digging into his palms as he sweats out the last remnants of his nightmare.

Hannibal doesn’t visit again, and he doesn’t think about it. It’s hard enough to picture him standing in his living room, petting his dogs idly and Will thinks that if he concentrates hard enough, he can erase the memory entirely. Winston is a stark reminder however, and the dog doesn’t hesitate to bundle himself on top of Will’s legs and lick his toes if he doesn’t respond to his whines.

Today, he manages to get out of bed. His head is throbbing from the bottle of Jack Daniels he had downed the night before and his teeth chatter insistently. Everything feels clammy and off and he sniffs at something sour before realising it’s him. He peels his shirt off and swipes under his arms, heading downstairs to let the dogs out. They rush him and Honey noses behind his knee before he ushers her away.

He relives himself outside and watches the puddle of piss absorb away into the sand. It’s slightly shameful, this lifestyle; he doesn’t remember the last time he showered or ate something that didn’t come in a frozen packet. He’s stagnating, a bald assessment of his quality of life since Hannibal and he isn’t sure if he ought to be ashamed of himself or indifferent.

Either way it’s no surprise when Hannibal decides not to show up again. It’s been two weeks.

He leaves the dogs futzing around and decides to make good use of his day. An idle compromise; he has no energy for productivity but isn’t entirely satisfied with the thought of passing out drunk on the settee again. He finds a happy medium and cleans, peeking out the window every so often to make sure the dogs haven’t run off. He vacuums and febreezes down the couch before heading for a shower. The pipes rattle when he turns the water on, he can hear them pulse through the tiles. The water scalds and he stands under the spray until the knots in his shoulders unwind.

His skin feels tacky, despite the vigorous soaping and his hair sticks down in matted strands across his face. He can feel the sweat pucker on his upper lip, across his nose from the steam and suddenly everything feels dizzy and disorientating and he stumbles out.

There’s something sweet in the air, almost fevered like wet iron and he thinks it’s the encephalitis sniffing around, lying dormant in the back of his mind. He can almost imagine his brain boiling, blistering in his skull and his knees suddenly buckle until he’s prone on the bed, naked and suffocating into the pillow.

This isn’t a new phenomenon for him. He’s all too aware he’s leaving a damp patch on the sheets and that thought grips his lungs in a clamp, like the springs on an animal trap swinging shut and it bites into his airways until the only sound he makes is a wheezing moan, forced trough his teeth on a rattle. Depression isn’t easy, but it’s not something he hasn’t had to deal with before. The signs are clear enough and he can analyse them impartially, tick off the checklist in his mind and sign himself off as a risk without the need for an outside opinion. Alana wouldn’t be surprised, but she would cluck away at him until he got help, or would’ve at least attempted to bandage the wounds herself.

The self awareness that comes with recognising an illness doesn’t necessarily help, but Will finds it a comfort knowing he isn’t completely deluded. He’s festering away, sweltering inside but he’ll leave it to marinate for a bit. It doesn’t require immediate attention.

Something nips at his foot and with great effort he turns his head and sees Winston whining at the foot of the bed, staring at him dolefully.

“Winston daddy’s having a moment, give me a minute.”

The words sound off and he cringes at the title. He curls on his side and pats the empty space beside him and Winston clambers on, tucking his head against Will’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say that again,” he mumbles, scratching generously behind Winston’s ear. “Do you miss being called Hunter? It doesn’t suit you.”

Winston regards him blankly, and Will tries again. “Hunter.” His ears perk, but he doesn’t give much else in response. Will doesn’t know whether to feel guilty for that or pleased. Instead he rubs at Winston’s neck, against the dark red collar Hannibal gave him, with its new glossy name tag.

“Do you miss your old life?” Will asks, not expecting an answer and not particularly wanting one. “Did they have kids?”

Winston whines softly and nudges Will’s arm.

Will laughs. “Well maybe.” He pauses. “He fucked it didn’t he? Everything. And now we’re here, and he’s here, and...” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He tries something, tests it in his head and considers whether there’s any harm in letting such a statement flow. He lets it roll off his tongue. “I want to kill him.”

It doesn’t feel powerful, in any measurement of the word, but it feels significant, if only for bolstering his confidence. It’s nothing more that his due, and Will can certainly see himself espousing the statement, tying the promise onto his fishing line and swinging it into black waters. It’ll catch, and that idea yields potential he wants to secure.

Will rises, smiling ineffectively at Winston, who seems perturbed by the change in position. “It’s good you’re back,” he says gently. “I missed you.”

He dries himself properly, slips some clean clothes on and changes the sheets. He then ushers Winston downstairs and the two round the rest of the dogs into the back of his car. Will gets his wallet and locks up, though he knows better than to assume it’ll keep anyone out, and sets off for Key West.

The roads are wet and the tires just about grip as he drives down. The dogs are happy enough, panting in the back seats, nosing at each other for the window space. He drives over a dip in the tarmac, over a puddle that sprays out across the sidewalk and the dogs bark in unison, excited. He does it again for the hell of it before pulling up outside the store. He left his jacket at home but it’s humid enough to deal without and he rolls the windows down enough for the dogs and jogs inside.

He’s never sure what to get, so he goes with the basics. He stocks up on toilet roll and kibble, hastily avoiding the meat isle, and picks up as many frozen dinners as he can sink his teeth into. He then spends the next ten minutes deciding on shampoo, before opting on his usual brand, the synthetic blue stuff that smells like toothpaste and slides down his neck in globs.

Will then contemplates wine. It’d be good, maybe for a change, but still feels too much like a certain person he’s trying to avoid falling into habits with. He sticks with his beer and picks up another bottle of cheap scotch, for comfort.

The sound of shoes squeaking on the flooring echoes through the store and he pays quickly, shuffling the bags in his arms as he leaves. The rain has stopped but the pavements are drenched as he walks past women with their hair damp and ropey, faces flushed, mascara blotting under their eyelids.

He heads for his car but pauses, confused. There’s a woman standing by the window, cooing at his dogs who bark eagerly at her, her fingers leaving moist imprints on the glass, which she wipes away ineffectively with her sleeve. She pokes her finger through the gap and Honey nips at it playfully.

“Can I help you?” Will asks, irritated by the interruption. The woman startles, embarrassed, and she tucks her damp fringe back from her eyes.

“Oh god, sorry you weren’t supposed to catch me, I was just admiring,” she rushes, mortified. “Your dogs are great.”

Will blinks at her, puzzled, and he glances at the car, at the dogs who don’t seem particularly bothered by her presence. It’s awkward to say the least and he almost wishes he could just leave. But he’s not upset, there’s something warm about her, muted even. It’s neither here or there for him but he can’t say he isn’t surprised by this.

“Thanks,” he mutters. There’s an awkward pause before he hastily clarifies. “They weren’t in there long.”

“Oh no,” she says, “I believe you. They’re nice, I’ve got a bullmastiff back home, he’s amazing but he’ll just about hump anything in sight.”

Will almost laughs at that. “Yeah? What’s his name?” He’s looking just shy of her eyes, trying for courtesy he doesn’t usually extend to strangers. She doesn’t seem to have noticed, or if she has she hasn’t indicated discomfort.

“Fluffy.”

Will snorts in surprise. “Seriously?”

The woman grins. “I’m kidding. It’s Frenchy.” She glances at the car. “And yours?”

“Er, there’s Alfie, Honey and you got Copper and Winston there.” He shifts the groceries from one arm to the other. “And you are?”

“Molly. I own a shop a few blocks down. Repairs and junk.”

Will nods. “Will,” he says. Molly gestures at his bags.

“You want a hand with them?”

“No I’m alright.” He considers for a moment, not wanting to come across as cold, for what reasons escape him suddenly. “But thanks.” Molly smiles at him, and she has a dimple just on the left of her mouth. Her hair’s falling out of its bun it frizzy clumps and her dark skin glistens slightly from the rain. She was caught in the downpour and Will feels a stab of pity. It’s a good thing it’s warm.

“Right,” she starts brightly. “Well, nice meeting you Will. Maybe I’ll see you around the dog park sometime.”

It takes a moment to decipher, his brain hasn’t quite managed to wire up correctly today and connecting the dots takes twice the amount of energy. “Dog park?”

Molly almost looks embarrassed. “Yeah there’s a dog park not too far from here. It’s nice, there’s dogs and grass, you know because it’s a park,” she trails off awkwardly.

“Oh,” he responds a bit too loudly, before reining himself in. “Oh. I didn’t know.” He can’t exactly say he’s not interested. There’s something appealing about Molly, whether it’s her forthrightness or her awkward smile. She’s certainly something and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he saw her again. “Maybe... I’ll see you there one day. Or at your shop. You know, for repairs and junk.” He smiles, genuinely, and everything brightens a fraction, if only for a moment.

Molly beams. “Yeah maybe. See you later.”

“Bye.”

She walks off into the supermarket and Will watches her leave, amused. He throws the bags in the trunk of the car and gets in, ready to go. Honey licks at his ear and he bats her away fondly.

“In a minute, we’ll be home soon.”

It’s drying up thankfully, the roads are clear enough for the afternoon. He doesn’t think, which is refreshing, enjoying the peace as it comes. It’s reliving, knowing he’s accomplished something today, with the added bonus of Molly who seemed pleasant enough in her own right. He tucks the thought of her away, along with the note on the dog park; it’d be nice to treat the dogs sometime soon.

He doesn’t, though only distantly aware of this, think of Hannibal. Not until he spots the man sitting on the deck of his house, arms crossed on his knees, squinting up at the sun which peeks behind a clearing cloud. Hannibal spots him, regards him with an incline of his head when Will approaches laden with shopping bags and four dogs nipping at his heels. Winston runs up to him, nuzzling his hand and the man tucks his fingers behind the collar and gives him a liberal scratch.

“Could you not have just broken in? You seemed pretty apt at it before,” Will says, standing a foot or so away from him, shadowing the sun rays. Hannibal rises to his feet and brushes off his jeans.

“Considering the reception of my last appearance, I didn’t want to startle you again.”

Will snorts, a derisive noise that unsticks itself from his throat. “Careful Hannibal one might mistake your modesty as genuine altruism. Can’t have that now.” The words slide free easily, he’s finding it increasingly cathartic nursing the bitter nodule within him that wants Hannibal’s oesophagus crushed under his foot. Rude perhaps, but considering all options, Will allows himself the freedom of honesty. He hasn’t got much to lose after all.

Hannibal appears as composed as ever, as ill-fitting as the attire and new persona might be, he does not appear dishevelled nor out of depth. His control still holds itself steady in his bones, and Will doesn't doubt the man’s tenacity, both for manipulation and perusal.

“Altruism is a concept far less considered than it is told. You of all would know its place in humanity; you do after all chase its lesser counterpart.”

“You mean death? Murder.”

Hannibal looks up at the beach, across its expanse. “Perhaps something a little less exact. We are all, at our basest levels, selfish beings. It is survival.”

Will grits his teeth, the paper bags crinkling in his fists when he clenches them. He can’t look at him and stares at his front door, perhaps one of the more obscure references of violation from Hannibal’s many gestures. “And what you do,” Will starts, his voice low, choked. “What _you_ do is survival is it?”

“And how would you have me justify that William?” Hannibal responds, after a pregnant pause. “When you already know the answer.” He looks for the briefest of moments irked, and Will is taken aback by the reaction he has garnered. As quickly as the look appears it closes off and Hannibal is as impassive as ever. He nods at the bags.

“Will you allow me to help with those?” He is steady but Will is unsure how to react to such a situation. He shoves a bag at Hannibal and fishes his keys out of his back pocket, opening the door and waiting for the dogs to run in before following.

It’s cool inside, a small blessing, and he heads into the kitchen to set the groceries down. Hannibal follows promptly.

Will turns to him. “Ok, you can leave now.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch, perhaps the faintest hint of a smile tugging at them before he glances at Will. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“About what?” Will rallies, gathering his resolve. “My impromptu gutting? Or maybe why you’ve followed me here to Florida even though it’s been made apparent I want nothing to do with you.” He chuckles blandly. “That might be a good place to start.” His mouth tastes bitter and he rubs over his lips with a sweaty palm, tasting salt and grit.

Hannibal turns to look out from the entryway into the front room, once again at Will’s rather dire living arrangements. He makes no outward gesture of disgust, or contempt at the state of his home and regards Will coolly. “I must admit the situation has greatly changed from our last engagement.” Something catches in his voice and he almost sounds remorseful, if Will could associate such a feeling with Hannibal. It’s hard knowing if he’s being manipulated, or if what he’s gathering could be considered as genuine emotion from the doctor. There’s not much he can relate to Hannibal aside from pain.

It’s suddenly become very hard to talk. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you not?” Hannibal responds benignly, looking at Will curiously.

Will feels strangled, like there is a leaden weight sitting on his throat, constricting his airways. A hand has reached into his chest and spread his rib cage with such obscene care, wrapped around his lungs and squeezed. They bulge in its grip until they pop, matter spilling over each knuckles in bulbous globs and the fear that seizes him is sudden and sweet like off meat. It presses on the back of his tongue and the pressure is intense, the urge to vomit within reach.

“Are you here to finish me,” he blurts, caustic and altogether too rapid. “Kill me? Is that what you want?”

“No.” Hannibal shakes his head, a bare movement that leaves Will confused. His tone leaves no room for discussion and Will isn’t entirely sure how to protest such an assertion. He wonders if Hannibal can see the blatant fear on his face, smell the sweat dampening under his arms, in his groin, and has made himself malleable to Will, changeable for whatever Will chooses to see and interpret. It’s like looking into a fogged mirror, seeing the shape but unable to make out the finer details, Hannibal is indiscernible.

Will studies his face, along the lines across his forehead, beside his eyes. He’s had more work done, though whether it was recent or something Will had failed to see before, he doesn’t know. It’s set in the cushy layers of fat in his cheeks, beneath his eyes and he somehow appears both pinched and radiant. It’s a strange concept, the man certainly looks good but Will can see the tension beneath the botox and he hopes it aches.

“You could’ve had me fooled,” he eventually mumbles. “It’s not the first time you’ve tried to kill me.”

Hannibal smiles as if Will’s just made a joke. “And vice versa.”

“By proxy,” Will corrects. Winston pads over and he strokes over his head absentmindedly, a safe line to ground him. “Though I wasn’t referring to our advocates.”

“Mathew Brown and Randal Tier?”

“You’re forgetting Mason Verger,” Will bites, the name sharp on his tongue. “Abel Gideon.”

Hannibal tsks softly, considering the name and it’s connotation between them. “A pity.” Will was aware of Gideon’s end, though he strayed far from the details, not wanting to immerse himself too close to the man he had spent the better half of four weeks with in with Chilton.

“Not from you.” There’s a pause, heavy as it settles between them, impeding on their stubborn refusal to talk with any real sincerity. Will shifts away from Hannibal, grabbing two glasses and setting them down on the counter. He fishes for the scotch he bought and pours himself a generous amount before doing the same for Hannibal and handing him the glass. Hannibal thanks him and takes a sip, wincing slightly.

“Your taste in scotch has certainly changed, it reflects poorly on you Will.”

Will grimaces. “Gotta lower your standards when you’re living on the breadline.” If he had any standards left he thinks lowly, hoping his drink has enough substance to numb him entirely. He sets it down and leans on the counter, staring at the collar of Hannibal’s shirt. “Where is Dr Du Maurier?”

Something passes over Hannibal’s face before it settles again, blank. It pulls just slightly at his eyes and they shutter when Will allows himself a glance. It colours Will’s assumption about the nature of Hannibal’s and Bedelia’s relationship, an inflection suggesting a hint of something more. It feels ugly in his power, and sits unwell in his stomach.

Hannibal takes another sip of the scotch, looking at Will. “Bedelia is, as far as I’m aware, safe and well.”

Will scoffs disbelievingly. “Right.”

“We had parted on amicable terms,” Hannibal continues, blithely. “I must admit I too had felt our time had come to pass, as agreeable as it was.”

Will watches him for a moment, conflicted. “She sent a letter.”

Hannibal nods. “I was aware.”

“Is she dead?

“As far as I’m aware she shouldn’t be. When we parted she was very much intact. Bedelia is a gift to the field of psychiatry; it would be a shame to waste such talent, I do hope she returns to it.”

Will rubs his face with a rough hand, stamping down the urge to snap Hannibal’s neck. The man is complacent from his joke, and Will feels drained of all energy. Some things haven’t changed.

“The letter was sent from Palermo,” he says instead, tired. “A bit obvious isn’t it, even for you?”

Hannibal chuckles and it’s an honest gesture that catches Will off guard. He smiles sadly, and finishes his drink. “The irony isn’t lost upon either of us it would seem. Nor Bedelia.” He sighs regretfully, eyes shut, lost in the memory. “I had gone, perhaps not of my own volition, but from a need to discover an ending to this. It seemed final, a conclusion to the circumstances, and I was eager to absolve my mind of what had transpired.”

He pauses, and his eyes are glossy. “I was searching for respite, and it had become a struggle to find it within my mind palace. The thought of manifesting a symbol into something substantial became cathartic.”

It’s silent, the dogs are quiet, and it startles Will when he realises it’s raining again. The air feels thick and sticky, and he’s drawn into Hannibal’s compass, into the comfort of his nostalgia. It’s heady.

“What happened when you got there?” Will asks quietly.

“As you would imagine, we romanticise things we can never quite comprehend on a personal level. Perhaps it was nothing more than whimsy. I arrived and felt nothing but pain. It was disjointed.” Hannibal studies Will carefully, and Will can see something guarded in his expression. It prickles him, from the hairs on his arms up to the flush behind his ears and his chest tightens inexplicably.

“It was then Bedelia terminated our acquaintance and I decided to seek another means of release.”

Will shifts uncomfortably, feeling pinned with Hannibal’s story. He feels pulled in and caught, like he’s strung on a line and he’s split between wanting to consume Hannibal entirely or flee from the snare. It throbs in his groin, hot, and he doesn’t realise how sumptuous Hannibal’s tale is until now. The thought of his pain is opulent and Will struggles not to revel in it.

He meets Hannibal’s stare dead on. “And how are you seeking it? Through God?”

“Would God not punish me for my indiscretion?”

Will’s palms are sweating. “You’re not seeking forgiveness through him or from yourself for that matter. I could be so bold as to suggest you wish to make amends but for what reason...” he trails off, his throat tightening. Anger flares up, brimming on the surface. “Do you really think you can just gloss this over? Pretend it never happened?”

“I’m aware it happened Will,” Hannibal says sharply. “As you are. It’s not as forgettable as that.”

“Only you weren’t left with a gaping hole in your stomach. Or dead.”

“Abigail was-”

“Don’t,” Will shouts, slamming his glass on the worktop. The dogs rise, barking ineffectively. “Don’t you fucking dare bring her into this just because you pity yourself, it doesn’t work like that Hannibal.” He’s trembling. “Fuck you, and your pity and your forgiveness, I don’t want it.”

“You already have it, I forgave you. I gave you an outlet,” Hannibal remarks, his voice hard. “You could have taken it.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to,” Will exclaims, seething. “Maybe I wanted to see you in Baltimore, strung out on antipsychotics, drooling, shitting in your pants. I wanted to see how you’d cope in your mind palace then.”

Hannibal’s expression shutters quickly and Will fears he will strike, tackle him to the ground and tear his tongue out with his teeth. He’s stricken in the way he moves, brushing off particles from his pants, tugging on his cuffs. His eyes are indiscernible and Will is frightened.

“I am capable of mistakes,” Hannibal finally allows, staring out the window, at the rain. “If those were your intentions, you would’ve called Jack Crawford by now. As it is, I do not think you have or will for that matter. I am a selfish person William, but if you wish to be left alone indefinitely, you only have to say.”

Will finds himself incapable of responding to that. Hannibal has never volunteered anything of himself that freely and it feels skewed upon presentation. His head is fogged and he can’t tell if he’s being manipulated or if this is genuine sentiment. It’s steadily becoming unclear whether he’s projecting, or if Hannibal is, and he’s reflecting it back like a broken mirror. It's bewildering.

But it takes one quelling look from Hannibal and it’s like a stuck window has opened itself in his head. The incomprehension is smeared across his face like a stain because Hannibal’s lips twitch, and his eyes read like he’s witnessed something beautiful and Will feels both overcome and startlingly angry.

Hannibal is calm and Will hates him for it. “Thank you for the drink Will.”

Will nods, unable to do much else and he watches as Hannibal walks into the living room and strokes over Copper’s head fondly. The dogs regard him curiously, the kind stranger with food. He’s no more a threat to them than he is a friend and he opens the door and strolls out into the rain.

It feels reminiscent of that night, and Will stares at the door and wonders when his life became so unrecognisable.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late! The chapter became a bit too long so I've split it. Hopefully updates will be more regular and thank you for all the comments and kudos they've been fantastic and so encouraging! As always please forgive any britishisms you find! 
> 
> It's treading into Red Dragon now. :)

_No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them._

He can’t fully remember the dream, it comes to him sporadically in fragments. Hannibal’s lips move, but the words are unaligned and feel distorted from him. He should be saying something else, there’s another element Will is forgetting, but he doesn’t pursue it. The stag no longer visits him, it doesn’t linger in the corners of his vision like a floater and he can’t say he misses it.

Will doesn’t feel healed though. Now the sickness has been purged, the monster has departed but he can still smell the carcass on his skin. It grapples at him, and he can taste it in the bile in his throat, the rot that ferments in the air. He festers in it and makes no willing effort to change.

It’s Hannibal, he supposes. As all things that come to pass within their acquaintance, it all equates to Hannibal and Will can now take it in his stride. He’s disconcerted with his inability to gauge his own warnings however. His instincts felt off kilter, like they’re chasing a foreign smell and he isn’t sure if this is Hannibal’s doing, or if this is some form of self sabotage from himself. In hindsight, he doesn’t quite see Hannibal as a threat, though perhaps as a mild affliction that needs to be excised.

Honestly, Will wants a quick solution to the problem, and briefly considers putting a bullet through his skull. He’d call the shelters and have the dogs adopted before he does anything, to spare them the trauma. He’d then leave a note for Hannibal. The mess would be a shame but the house is on its way out anyway. The next owners would have to replace the carpet regardless.

Hannibal would find his suicide mundane. Pedestrian, knowing he’s taken his own life.

The thought doesn’t sit comfortably with him.

Will sits in the bathtub and drinks. The water comes midway up his chest, lukewarm, and he tops it up with hot water until his skin prickles again and flushes red. Specks float across the surface and they catch on his damp skin until he picks them off. There are bubbles caught in his pubes and he watches them idly, rubbing a hand through the thatch as they free. A bottle of scotch sits on the tub’s edge, half empty.

The dogs mull around downstairs, they’re occupied enough. Occasionally one will pop its head round for attention, or to make sure daddy hasn’t drowned himself.

It’s a dire existence.

He thinks he might be addicted to his own misery. There’s the idea of languishing within his own depression, it’s not something he hasn’t caught himself doing at least once before. Solitude has always suited him perfectly and he’s happy with that. The notion of comfort, or at least some form of happiness is relative to his state of wellbeing. He was content before Jack came sniffing for a profile, before Hannibal, but he can’t say he was happy. Neither was he sad, though in retrospect sadness has always sat better with him.

He thinks he could be happy though, somewhere, with a boat and a wife maybe.

Kids don’t factor in his fantasies anymore. He doesn’t dream about creating a child, nor the ones he seemed close to having. He hasn’t seen Margot since Mason’s accident and doesn't think about Abigail. On the days he does, he drinks until he sees black. In the mornings, his hands tremble.

Will draws his knees up, arms resting on them. He’s too tall for the bath and his fingers are pruning in the water- he’s not sure how long he’s been in it for. The scar on his belly appears magnified like this, it stretches like a maw across his skin, the scar tissue bleached white, the stitches poking under the bumps like thorns. He reaches under and tugs on it and something pulls deep in his abdomen, a tickle that runs into his groin, making his balls tighten and his gut ache.

He’s sweating all over, it beads on the bridge of his nose, across his forehead and his pits stink. It might be the alcohol but it’s not a thought he’s willing to chase. It numbs everything beautifully, humming just under his consciousness and he doesn’t think. He doesn’t have to; it dulls the edges until he feels safer, less turbulent within himself.

The rain pounds against the windows, he can hear the dogs whining from the assault downstairs. One is climbing up the stairs, the clicks of nails give them away and this time it’s Copper. He pads over to Will and rests his head on the edge of the tub, sighing.

“Hey buddy,” Will greets, patting him wetly. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Copper huffs slightly, and instead climbs on the bed, circling around before finding a position and curling in it. Will watches, amused and reaches for the scotch again.

Somewhere, his cell rings and Will nearly drops the bottle in the bath. It’s buzzing downstairs, in the kitchen probably and he lets it hit voicemail. It rings again, and a third time before Will rises, the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. It’s cold suddenly and he quickly towels off before heading down to grab his phone.

It’s Jack.

There’s no voicemail, but three calls is more than enough to indicate something’s up. His heart hammers, the thought of Bedelia turning up water logged, strangled, hung up and skinned, rolling through his mind. Separately Hannibal goats, or is regretful, Will can’t tell.

Jack sounds tired. “Will, thanks for returning the call.”

“No problem.” Honey paws at his legs for attention and he pets her. Her hairs cling to his damp skin and he picks them off.

“How are you? Heard there’s a storm.”

“I’m good. And it’s slow in coming. Might have to replace the carpet by the end of it.” He doesn’t consider the statement, or its implications.

“Right. Wanted to ask if you’d seen the news lately.”

Will rubs his eyes, feeling cold. His hands are quivering again. “Why? What’s happened?”

Jack sounds surprised. “You haven’t heard?”

“Been a bit busy, haven’t had a chance to do much. You’re gonna have to fill me in.”

There’s a sigh, and Jack suddenly sounds agitated. “I thought you heard, would’ve been a lot easier. There’s been another killing, two of them actually. They’re thinking it’s the Chesapeake ripper.”

He feels like he’s been doused in ice. His stomach is tight and concave when he sucks in a breath and holds it. “Han-” He pauses, gathering. “Hannibal Lecter.”

Jack waits a moment, and his voice is tense before he continues, like he’s waiting for something to drop. “ _They_ think it’s him.”

“But you...”

“I’m not at liberty to say whether I think it is or isn’t him at this point. Bottom line, _they_ think it is.”

It’s like a light’s been turned on in a darkened room. It’s jarring and bright but everything is suddenly clear. “Right. Ok.”

“Check it out,” Jack says lightly. “And let me know what you think.”

“Jack I said I didn’t want-”

“I know. I know that Will but I don’t need you for anything else I just need you to say yes or no. That’s it, I swear.”

“Yes or no.”

“That’s it.”

“Why me? You know him as well as I do! If you don’t think it’s him, it’s probably not him.”

“And how would we know that?” Jack responds sharply. “My first thought was him. Everything I see now, it’s him, how am I supposed to think differently? You know what I’m talking about.”

“That’s not the point,” Will argues, getting a beer from the fridge. It pops open and fizzes against the rim. “He’s gone.”

“Who told you that? Alana? Personally I don’t think it’s Hannibal. But they’re not going to let me go with that after last time. And I can’t say I blame them.”

“Then why are you even on the case?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Jack is clipped now, irritated and Will can’t blame him. He doesn’t want to do this. “But we’re the closest anyone’s ever got to Dr Lecter and they need proof that it’s not his work.”

“And what,” Will starts, taking a long pull on his beer. “You think they’re gonna trust what I say on this?”

Silence. Jack sets the phone down for a moment, Will can hear the shuffle as it hits the deck. He can imagine Jack rubbing at his face, frustrated at his own incapability, his distrust of himself and his gut instinct on this. Will pictures himself behind Jack’s desk and tries to see the noose. It fits snugly against the gash across his throat, and it tightens with every click of Kade Purnell’s heels.

“No,” Jack eventually says, tempering his voice to make sure there’s no accusation in it. The bitterness reeks though, he can’t disguise it well enough. “No they won’t. But I trust you when it comes to Hannibal Lecter. Right now and I don’t know what to think, and I just need a confirmation.”

Will runs his hand across his face. “I’m not consulting on this case.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Jack doesn’t hide his relief.

“I mean it Jack,” Will presses. “I’m not doing it.”

“Alright.”

“Ok.”

Will hangs up. He finishes his beer and opens another. It’s warm, so he opens the windows and the back door, watching as the dogs rush outside. He leaves them for a moment to slip on some pants before heading out to the deck. He thinks about Hannibal, and Italy. Walking through the chapels, under the light of the sun, Bedelia on his arm, dressed in red. He sees her blonde hair tousled around her neck, as Hannibal runs his hands through it, like spun gold threading across his fingers.

Did they sleep together? He’d imagine they could have. His beer does its job of blunting everything beautifully, it takes the edge off his imaginings, as voyeuristic as they might be.

He wouldn't overlook the possibility that Hannibal is indulging again. It might’ve very well been true but Jack remains sceptical, and in doing so seals Will’s suspicions that it’s probably not him. But on the other hand Hannibal is capricious like that, his style is still very much his own, but he’s not above altering a few nuances to throw them off his trail.

He’d have to have a look though the cases but honestly, he doesn’t have the energy. He can’t seem to do much lately though, the fact buckles over him until he’s stifled, inundated by its presence. Winston comes over, after a piss in the sand and rests his head on Will’s knee. He attempts to lick at his beer but Will moves it out of reach, tutting gently.

“The stuff will kill you,” he murmurs. “Don’t want that now.”

Eventually he digs his laptop out from the wardrobe. Pulls it out of its case and loads it up, listening to the fan whirl on his kitchen table as the water outside picks up speed and roars louder. The rain will start up again soon, the electricity singes through the air. He grabbed his scotch from the bathroom and it now sits three quarters empty beside him as he gathers courage.

He doesn’t know what to search. The idea seems vast and he goes onto google and stares at the search engine blankly. Jack hasn’t exactly left any discerning clues and Will rubs at his chin, resisting the urge to blindly type in murder and see what comes up.

Instead, and rather ironically he thinks, he types in tattlecrime.com. The garish red pops up, and it suits Freddie Lounds and her incriminatory ways, despite how tacky it seems. Trash for the masses, like popular fiction, tabloids and reality tv. Freddie certainly knows how to pander to her market.

It’s the first thing that comes up- _**Chesapeake Ripper strikes again?**_

He pours himself another glass and reads over carefully.

_After the disappearance of the notorious Chesapeake Ripper, formally known as Dr Hannibal Lecter, no doubt tensions are running high in the bid to find this man. However new evidence has come to light that maybe he’s not as far as we thought._

_The murders in question are of course of the families Leeds and Jacobi. There is no doubt as to whether Dr Lecter committed these crimes, as also confirmed by a nameless source from the FBI, but how far are they to catching him? And how long before another family falls to his monstrous endeavours?_

Son of a bitch. Will cringes at Freddie’s analysis of Hannibal, and the suspiciously explicit details on both families. In any case it’s not enough to quell any uncertainty he’s feeling, consulting Jack right now would only be premature.

He clicks on a new tab instead. Hotels in Florida. He can’t imagine anywhere specific Hannibal would stay, nor any alias he’d be partial to. It’s like looking for a needle in a hay stack.

Eventually he comes across five or six; fairly neutral and all within Hannibal’s budget. Nothing too flashy to incriminate himself, but nothing desolate enough to warrant discomfort.

 _I’ll go in the morning_ , he thinks, when he hasn’t been drinking. Though he could go now; wait a few hours before heading out. He hasn’t had that much. And it’s only seven thirty.

He finds himself in a quiet diner, two hours later, sipping at strong coffee. It burns his tongue but he gets as much of it as he can down himself, shielding his eyes from the fluorescent lighting. He’s sitting in a small booth, the vinyl seats squelching against his pants, trying not to look at his reflection in the window. Upon inspection, the last hotel on his list seems fair, but not quite up to his original standard. It will come to no surprise if it turns up nil.

The waitress potters over, scratching slightly at her chin and trying to stifle a yawn. Haggard, but young, the stress lines around her eyes have nothing to do with age. She smiles tiredly at Will, and brushes her peroxide blonde hair back from her eyes.

“Hey, want some more coffee?”

Will shakes his head. “I’m fine thanks.”

It’s painful waiting here and he feels like something’s about to happen. He wonders idly what Hannibal is thinking. If he’s holed up in his hovel of a room, injecting collagen into his face, pressing on his neck and wishing for the tailored sweeping collars that run across his shoulders, the double breasted suits, the tartan and paisley and the pocket squares. Does he miss the layer of soft fat cushioning across his bones, evidence of a life well lived, of splendour? He imagines Hannibal regretting this, regretting Will for all his candour and sadness, the way eyes gnaw at him, the way he lets shadows of bad men and women pull at his innards like they’re strings.

Could Hannibal regret, and if so could he regret Will? He had thought as much, once when he was still shitting in a bag, waking up soaked in piss and sweat. He thought this was Hannibal cutting his losses with him. A gut and run. It might’ve been true, at one point in their lives. When Will was festering in shock, clinging onto his self pity without a shred of dignity and Hannibal was swanning with Dr Du Maurier, playing the dutiful partner.

His fists clench on the table, and he has red crescents across his palms, sore. He pays the bill, nods to the waitress and pulls his collar up. The hotel is nice, clean. It’s not as touristy as the rest; Will can imagine this as the sort of place they hold company affairs, lectures and presentations across the board. The woman at the desk eyes Will warily for a second, surprised.

“Hello Sir, how can I help you?”

It takes a moment to gather himself, but he forces a smile, genial and harmless. “Hi. I was supposed to meet someone down here, a client and he said he’d meet me in the lobby, but I haven’t seen him so far.” He’s suddenly embarrassed, the role catching up on him and the woman smiles in sympathy, caution gone. “I left my wallet at home, it’s got his number and information in it.”

She hums. “What did he look like?”

“Six foot or about that, dark brown hair. You haven’t seen him waiting around have you?” He’s trying to be as specific as possible, but not, and the balance is tight. The woman’s face is blank and he tries again. “He has an accent.”

“An accent?” There’s a glint of recognition. He rolls with it.

“European, you know? I couldn’t quite get the name,” Will says. “It’s not a problem if nothing’s coming up, I’ll just run home and try again later.”

She purses her lips, thinking. “No it’s ok, I mean I’m not really supposed to do this but I think I might know who you’re after. I could try and ring up?”

Will sighs in relief. “That would be great, thank you.”

She picks up the receiver, her hand on the phone. “Who should I say it’s from?”

“Tell him it’s Will.”

“Will,” she confirms, dialling the room number. Will looks out across the lobby, at the brown carpeting and beige walls, boarded with a golden rim. It’s not too bad a place. Nice, comfortable. Hannibal would perhaps appreciate its comeliness.

“Hello Sir? It’s Reception. I wanted to enquire, there’s a man asking for you? He says his name is Will. Right, yes. Yes of course.” She smiles and gives Will a thumbs up and his stomach drops. He grins weakly, stunned his efforts worked. “Goodbye.” She hangs up. “Found him. He said to send you up, his room is on the third floor, forty-seven B.”

Will rubs a hand over his mouth. His palms are sweating. “Thank you, that’s great. Forty-seven b was it?”

“Yes sir. It’s on the third floor.”

“Thank you for your help.”

“Not at all.” The woman smiles at him and Will heads up toward the elevator, giddy. 

Hannibal’s room is further down the corridor, lit brightly enough. He comes up to the brown door, staring down at the electric key reader. He knocks once, and waits.

The answer is prompt and Will doesn’t know what he’ll do if someone else answers instead, someone nondescript, confused and wondering who he is. Thankfully, and the irony isn’t lost on him, Hannibal answers.

“Will.” He casts his eyes over him, and his nostrils flare slightly. He can probably smell the sweat, the bath water he didn’t rinse off properly and the alcohol. Will has coffee breath, and he’s suddenly conscious of himself. “Please, come in.”

He enters, and Hannibal glances around the hall before shutting the door, turning back to him. “I must say I was surprised when I received a call about your whereabouts.”

Will snorts. “You must have known I was coming.”

“Yes,” Hannibal allows with a dip of his head. “But not necessarily so soon. Your methods never cease to amaze me. Although I will have to change lodgings now.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to incriminate you.” He hesitates. “Though no one suspects, I kept it vague.”

“I know.” The room is sizeable, not by any stretch of the imagination but it’s comfy enough. The bed takes up the most room, and there’s a large bay window just to the left of it, leading onto a concrete balcony that looks over the apartment complex across the street. Will steps out onto it, and the air is warm, comfortable. He spots the diner, lurking just opposite and it clicks.

“You saw me.”

“You didn’t make much effort to conceal yourself.”

“I suppose not.”

Hannibal hands him something, and it’s a glass, the amber liquid swirling inside. Will takes a sip and the bourbon burns his throat, all the way down to his chest, settling warmly in his gut. Hannibal takes a respective sip, and Will takes the moment to observe.

He looks tired, but content enough. Dealing with it, Will supposes and the changes in Hannibal’s face suddenly seem more apparent. Hannibal pats his cheek with the back of his hand and winces slightly.

“Collagen,” he explains with another sip. “It’ll take a day to settle.”

Will nods. “You planning on staying long?”

“Only as long as needed.” Hannibal regards him smoothly. “Am I interrupting your lifestyle?”

Will looks at the bed. “That’s a redundant statement. If you were you wouldn’t care.”

“I would,” Hannibal counters. “I’m interrupting nothing. You made it clear you wanted nothing from me, so I’ve left it at that.”

Will recoils at that, confused. “I didn’t...” he cuts himself off before he says anything incriminating. Hannibal appears impassive, closed but there’s the faintest twitch to his lips. The frustration simmers again and Will wonders why he even came.

“You’re an asshole,” Will spits. “You’re still playing your games. And you haven’t exactly said why you’re here. So don’t play martyr-”

“I assure you Will,” Hannibal retorts, turning away to sit on the small rounded table in the corner of the room. There’s an ashtray on it, half full. “I’m the furthest away from martyrdom. You on the other hand can attest to such a statement.”

“I’m not a martyr.”

“Perhaps not. Self pity doesn’t fit the definition.”

Will’s knuckles go white. “You can talk. You’re just a washed up version of what you were. Look at you.” Will gestures around the room. “This is pathetic, even for you.”

Hannibal’s eyes tighten. “And you? A drunk, a broken home, wallowing in self pity and regret until what exactly? You drink yourself into a stupor and throw yourself into the sea?” His voice never rises above a conversational level, but it hardens implicitly.

“At least I know what I am. And I’m comfortable with that. You’re the one that came back, you’re the one who can’t let go.”

“I told you why I returned.”

Will laughs. “No you didn’t!” He gulps at his drink, hissing at the burn. “You wanted to ‘make amends’. That’s pretty vague.” Will sits on the bed, crumpling the crisp sheets under his weight. “I’m not here for any of that, I don’t give a shit about what you do or don’t want.”

He’s aware he’s being rude, but he’s feeling petulant and angry. He can’t let go of his anger, his resentment, it eats at him and seeing Hannibal turns it ugly. It’s dangerous and poisons him until he’s boiling over with fury.

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, his lips pursed, face tight. “Then what do you want?”

Will pauses, just so long as to calm himself. He needs to think about this. “You’re in the papers again.”

“I am aware.”

“Then you’re aware that I need to know whether the allegations are true or not.”

Hannibal’s mask slips on effortlessly, his eyes are glass. “What do you think Will?” He smiles slightly, head tilted. “Surely you’ve observed the scene.”

“I haven’t actually,” Will responds, shaking his head. “I’m making a preliminary assessment. Considering I’m the only one in any steady contact with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“You know me better than most. I’m sure you’ve already come to a conclusion.”

Will looks at him, seeing the slight mirth in his gaze but nothing concealed. He can never tell with Hannibal, not fully. But he is right, he has already concluded, though it doesn’t reassure him as well as he thought it would.

“Do you know who did it?” he asks instead, and Hannibal’s smile softens. He shakes his head.

“I’m afraid not, but he is certainly an interesting specimen.”

“He?” Will says.

“Considering the nature of the crime, I would say so.”

Will does the math, running over what few details he knew. The sexual undertone, the mutilation of the wife and mother. He agrees, nodding briefly. “Maybe.”

Hannibal rises, and Will watches his movements carefully. He moves to top up his glass but Will shakes his head.

“I need to drive.”

Hannibal straightens. “Then I assume you’ve had more than just the one?”

Will doesn’t answer that, averting his eyes. “Do you plan on living like this forever?”

“I do not,” Hannibal says, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from the bedside drawer. He places them down on the table, along with a lighter and sits down again. His shirt pulls slightly across his shoulders, ill fitting. “If nothing comes of this I will leave, perhaps within the month.”

Will is taken aback. It doesn’t leave him long, if Hannibal is genuine and not merely goading him into a reaction. It’s a bland gesture; he sees it coming and doesn’t rise to it. It leaves him curious however. Hannibal obviously wants something from him, he’s just not sure what.

“I didn’t think you smoked,” Will remarks instead, nodding at the pack. “Vices seemed beneath you for some reason."

“I’m capable of vices. Occasionally I’ll indulge. Now more so than usual.”

“I can imagine.” The sarcasm is palpable, and Hannibal responds well to it. He considers asking about Bedelia again. It niggles at him, eats on the tails of his thoughts until it becomes clear he’s bothered by it. He doesn’t want Hannibal assuming anything however. He doesn’t want to give the man leverage.

Hannibal watches him calmly, pulling out two cigarettes. “Would you like one?”

Will looks at it, and feels the tug in his stomach for that pull of nicotine. He nods and moves to sit at the table, carefully refraining from touching Hannibal. He accepts the cigarette and puts it to his mouth. He reaches for the lighter but Hannibal flicks it on and keeps it slightly out of his reach so he has to lean forward. He twitches, cautious when Hannibal cups the flame, his fingers brushing just so over Will’s cheek. The cigarette catches and Will draws on it, pulling back quickly. Hannibal lights his and inhales deeply, exhaling through his nostrils.

“You are allowed to ask.”

Will feigns ignorance. “Ask what?” The cigarettes are good, smooth. Expensive probably, it seems like something Hannibal would go for.

“About Dr Du Maurier.”

Will snorts. “What, are you giving me permission to?”

“No.” Hannibal pauses, tapping the ash off into the glass tray. “You don’t need permission. But I can see it brewing. It’s always best to air these things I find.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “Or do you just want the satisfaction of telling me you two were fucking?”

Hannibal grimaces at the expletive, unimpressed with Will’s profanity. He’s being crude about this, heavy handed and he’s afraid he’s losing ground.

“Is that what you think?”

Will envisions it. Hannibal moving between her thighs, powerful. His hand curved around her throat as he had cupped the flame, her hands across his flank. He’d imagine Hannibal would be as committed to sex as he is with anything else, pushing it to its utmost potential. It’s an art to him, the seduction, and the pleasure of touch. Heady and malleable to his whim. He pictures Hannibal pleasuring Bedelia, focusing on the tics of her body, its plains. His head between her quivering thighs, tasting as he would do wine.

Will comes back into himself and stares at Hannibal. “Yes.”

It’s quiet, and Hannibal doesn’t respond readily but Will isn’t expecting an answer. The silence is confirmation enough and now that he knows he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel. They smoke peacefully, and when Will stubs his out Hannibal offers him another. He takes it, lighting it himself, feeling the burn singe down to his lungs. The surrealism of it all doesn’t pass him blindly; he accepts it into his arms and gathers the resolve to admit to himself that this doesn’t feel as out of place as it should.

Will studies Hannibal intently, the hair that curls slightly under his neck now, the puffiness beneath his eyes. “Doesn’t it hurt?” he asks, gesturing with his fingers. “The collagen?”

“Not as much as the rhinoplasty. Pain is by far one of the more tolerable things to experience.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Will is bothered by that statement. Hannibal’s tilts his head to one side, appearing disarming.

“Pain is inevitable Will, it’s fleeting.”

“You obviously haven’t lived with it chronically.”

“Haven’t I?” Hannibal responds blithely, stubbing his cigarette in the tray. “I’ve certainly experienced my fair share of pain and from it the lasting consequences. In comparison to famine, pain is insignificant, on an individual scale. We are ruled by fear, and that’s what amplifies the experience of hurt. I don’t fear the needle, therefore the pain does not affect me as much as it could.”

“I understand that, but from someone who causes so much, emotional and physical, holding yourself above it is conceited. A skewed judgment.”

“Do you think so?” Hannibal allows, sipping at the rest of his bourbon.

“You think you are untouchable. The only one who you allow to hurt you is yourself. That’s why you don’t fear it.”

“Perhaps.”

“So you don’t let people come close-”

“Neither do you Will.”

“I never said we weren’t alike in that respect. But you can’t make a statement like that and expect anyone to just go with it. You’re not god, you don’t know shit about pain.”

Hannibal purses his lips, his eyes flash and a fraction of Will fears he’s over stepped the line. It’s tense, and Hannibal looks away to light another cigarette. He’s cold. “Do you know why I returned?”

Will’s eyes are on the table, he can’t look at Hannibal. He’s shrunken on himself, and he feels brittle. “For me.”

“And why you?”

_Because of what happened. Because of Abigail. Because I tricked you and I wanted to. Because I wanted to see you locked up._

“Do you not think I ask myself that?” he laughs instead, offhanded. “If I were unremarkable I doubt any of this would’ve happened.”

Hannibal laughs in turn. “By whose standards? Yours?” He rubs a hand over his mouth, pinching at his chin slightly and Will wants to bat his hands away, to tell him he’ll make his face sting even more. His eyes are reflective, dark in the way that bodes no return or depth. He is still and Will could spend hours watching him, eyeing for a movement or a tell, anything to peel away that carefully constructed outside, layer by layer. He could wear it, sew it into his skin and try and understand what makes Dr Lecter tick.

“I assure you Will, you are not that remarkable.” He taps on his glass, and ripples pool through the amber liquid. “I came because I missed you. Because you were very successful in worming your way under my skin. Which was the initial intention, was it not?”

Will’s mouth is dry. His drink is finished so he reaches forward and takes a sip of Hannibal’s. Rude perhaps. Hannibal doesn’t respond and he places it down between them, sullen.

“Be that as it may,” Hannibal continues. “I am trying to excise you and it is difficult.”

“You cut me open, _that_ was difficult.”

“As I had said, pain is up to the individual. It is relative.”

Will scoffs at this, disbelieving. “And what,” he needles. “What did you get from that? What was your pain?”

He already knows the answer. As soon as the words leave him, coalesce into the question, he knows. He can see it in Hannibal, the man has left himself open for reading and it’s so abundantly clear it hits him right in his sternum, sparks something terrifying deep in Will’s gut.

“Betrayal,” Hannibal responds obliquely, looking away.

“Betrayal,” Will echoes. “That’s a bit medieval.”

“Love then.” Hannibal turns his gaze back and it’s dead on, scathing. “Perhaps that was the source of my pain.”

It hurts, god it hurts. Will can’t comprehend this, Hannibal, why his throat suddenly feels clogged and his senses misaligned. It's too much naked honesty. He’s completely disarmed and doesn’t know how to even consider a reply let alone a meaningful one.

He hears sirens passing by, followed by cars. The air conditioning rattles on, a backdrop of white noise against everything else, which seem deafening in comparison. Will thinks he could lie back on the bed and listen to the woosh of air until he sleeps. It’s why he picked his house, so close to the sea, it lulls him in every night beneath its waves.

Hannibal ushers the drink forward, and Will takes it in his hand and finishes it. His eyes are closed, they must’ve shut when he was listening to the cars, unable to cope with anything more. There’s shuffling, of wood on carpet and Hannibal’s shirt creasing like paper. His arm shoots out and grips the elbow of the man in front and when he cracks his eyes his vision is blanketed by grey. There are fingers in his hair and a thumb on his cheek and Hannibal tilts Will’s head up to look at him.

Will thinks he’s going to be kissed and half of him wants to run and half attempts to close his eyes in anticipation. It’s mirroring Hannibal’s gesture that night, the way he cradled Will’s face before slicing him like meat.

“What are you doing?” Will mutters, faint. Hannibal sighs, and rubs his thumb against the vein throbbing in Will’s temple.

“The man you are looking for is not me,” he says instead and the relief that floods through Will is immeasurable. “But you knew that.” Hannibal smiles gently. “Call Jack about it tomorrow.”

Will sees the gesture, reads it aptly but is uncertain how to approach. He wets his lips and Hannibal traces the movement with his eyes. It’s hot, but he’s not about to acknowledge that. “You want me to stay.”

“What I want,” Hannibal replies, coolly. “You aren’t prepared to give.”

Will stares up at him, at the stubble across his cheeks, the grey in his hair, the age that is so much more evident now. He’s right. He’s not prepared to give.

What Hannibal is unaware of is that Will doesn’t know how to.

He rises and Hannibal’s hand falls away from his face. He’s lightheaded from the alcohol, it rushes up into his head and he feels like he’s tilting. Will reaches up after a moment and thumbs beneath Hannibal’s eye.

“Did that hurt?” he asks, steady.

“Yes.”

He does it again, and Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed. Will pulls away, and heads toward the door. “I’m calling Jack tomorrow.”

“Send him my regards.”

Will leaves, and when he reaches the lobby he glances at the reception desk. The woman is on the phone and doesn’t notice him. For the best he supposes, and tugs his collar up, haring out into the night. It’s raining, but it’s warm and does nothing more than drizzle. He walks a block to his car, taking the air in, his lungs fill to burst. It’s only when he’s inside does he realise his hands are trembling, and the quivers start in his knees and run up to his chest, until he’s aching and choking down a sob.

He’s confused. But what he needs to do is figure out why he felt seared and branded when Hannibal’s fingers pressed against his skull. What he needs to do is wash away this relief that feels acidic in his mouth, and try and pull himself together.

But it takes a while.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late! I've moved house so it's taken a while to try and settle down but things are calm now so I can write! Your comments and kudos have been so helpful and I can't thank you guys enough! Hopefully updates will be less sporadic now. 
> 
> After this chapter we're getting into the meat of the case. Also I like writing jack and hannibal chats a load of shit sometimes.

The next day consists of little output, and lingers just on the edge of brooding. Will meanders along, going through the motions, taking the time to try and untangle the mess Hannibal had left behind with him. It leaves him dissatisfied and cold, and no amount of drinking or sulking is enough to curb his attentions elsewhere.

Jack is suspiciously quiet, and Will considers the possibility that he’s not prepared for his answer. He isn’t sure whether it’s come as a comfort or not. Surely Hannibal stands unmatched in his activities, though Will has seen enough evidence to claim otherwise. Hannibal just feels more personal.

He can’t quite justify his feeling of relief at knowing it’s not him, it makes him feel guilty. Guilt of course has no place within Hannibal’s acquaintance, his orbit circles just outside the sphere of responsibility.

Will feels fucked, in the barest of definitions. It’s like being caught between a rock and a hard place. Hannibal’s fingers loiter on the fringes of his memory, caught between threads of anger and self loathing, and he presses his own hands against his temples in a bid to capture the feeling and reconsider its meaning.

He wonders if they’ll see each other again. No doubt it’ll be soon.

He calls Jack, just when it touches evening, when he knows the man is free from prying ears. Jack answers on the first ring.

“Tell me something good Will.”

“It’s not Hannibal.”

“Jesus,” Jack sighs, like an absolution. “I knew it.”

“Why’d you ask for my help then?” It’s cool, there’s a welcoming breeze in the air and Will takes his ice box, several beers and sits out on the sand with the dogs and a pack of cigarettes. The sea is calm. He opens a beer and watches the foam fizz over the rim. He licks it off his hand.

“I needed a second opinion.”        

“Not like you, Jack,” Will says, nudging Copper with his foot. The dog is older than the rest, he tires more easily. It’s a nice change, companionable, for when Will isn’t feeling particularly zealous either. “Would they even listen to you?”

“They’re going to have to.” There’s a muffled cough, and the sound of tinkering glass. “You drinking Will?” he asks.

“As ever.”

“Then cheers.” Jack takes a sip of whatever it is he’s drinking and Will does so in turn. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, drawing in deeply.

“Still no closer to catching Hannibal,” he remarks after the exhale. “It’s like looking in a dark room.”

“You’d think that,” Jack replies. “Granted it’s a lot harder now, people hoped it was the ripper at one point. You could understand why.”

“Better the devil you know.”

Jack agrees. Will glances up, across the sand toward his left, up at the road cutting behind his house. He sees no one yet.

“We’re making enquiries into Bedelia Du Maurier’s whereabouts. Not much yet, it’s always harder working oversees, not much leeway. But if anyone has seen them they’re referring to a couple, husband and wife.”

Will drags harder on his cigarette, pinching it between his lips. “You think they’re posing as partners?”

“It’s safer,” Jack says. “Won’t arouse as much suspicion.”

“Could be. Softer on the eyes.”

Will hums slightly, not sure if he’s agreeing or not. He can understand the appeal of Bedelia and Hannibal together, it fits like a glove, they’d complement each other aesthetically and mentally. Unlike his shit talking Louisiana self, there’s only so much you can erase with time.

“How’s Florida,” Jack asks, casually. They’re not one for small talk but from time to time it helps.

“It’s nice.” Will flicks at the sand. “Peaceful. It gives me space.”

“Simple.”

“Something like that.”

Jack makes a sound, noncommittal, acknowledging. There’s a gap of silence before he interrupts it. “Is it worth asking if you’ve looked at the case?”

Will rubs at his eyes, tired. “I did. Just a skim. It was enough though.”

“We haven’t caught him yet.” Jack lets that settle, mulling over his words before he adds on, “He’s good.”

“Not like you to pussy foot Jack.”

“I don’t want to push you.”

Will laughs. “That’s never been a problem before.”

“Things changed Will,” Jack answers, harshly. “I can’t afford to make that mistake again. No matter how much I might want to.”

“That’s comforting.” The sand folds around his hands when he leans down to stretch his back out. Winston’s running against the laps of water across the shore, along with Honey who revels in pawing at the foam. He takes another drag on his cigarette, until the end flames red, craning his neck to look up at the road. The red Volvo is parked up, and a figure leans again it, watching him. It’s worrying, his throat tightens, and panic flares up bright and quick. He scrambles to his knees, working up onto his legs and ignoring the pops in his ankles.

“Will? Still there?”

“I gotta go. Keep me informed, or don’t it’s up to you. But it’s not him as far as I figure. Look for a man, thirties maybe, he’s gotta have information on both families.”

“Got anything else?” Jack needles, angling for a bite, hopeful. Will tucks the phone against his neck and whistles for the dogs. He leaves the open beer bottles and salvages what he can, the dogs in tow when he ambles inside as fast as possible.

“No. You’ll figure it out.”

“I’ll email you what we have.”

“I won’t read it,” Will snaps, agitated. As soon as everyone’s in, he locks the door, leaning against it.

“Tell yourself that.” Jack hangs up before he can respond, as always with the last word.

He’s not sure where the fear comes from, how it stems deep within his core, tumbling beneath his scar and inching up into his throat like bile. Hannibal has his moments, his unpredictability considered and measured. Will feels like he’s not entirely outside the sphere of understanding his movements however. Knowing Hannibal is near has become a comfort, in its twisted way. Half of his shock now comes from embarrassment, half born from anger.

It’s frustrating. He’s unsure and agitated and this doesn’t help. When he turns and opens the door, Hannibal is there, just off the centre, a few meters away in Will’s spot staring out to sea. His shoulders are relaxed, the tension easy. His hand taps away an uneasy rhythm against his thigh.

“Go away,” Will calls, voice rusty. Hannibal turns slightly to the side, his face in profile, unperturbed.

“Will,” he chides gently. “Don’t be rude.”

“What am I supposed to say then?” Will snaps, trembling slightly. He leans against the door frame, a splinter pinching into the flesh on his thigh. “Should I invite you in? Offer you a beverage?”

Hannibal doesn’t move from his position, but he’s left both himself and the space beside him open. He is approachable, and Will doesn’t know whether to tackle from behind and strangle the man or advance as a companion. He’s seeking company, and once again tries his hand with Will.

Winston prods his head out from between Will’s legs, spotting Hannibal. He shimmies past despite Will’s protests and nudges Hannibal’s hand.

“Good afternoon Winston,” Hannibal greets, petting him once. Will bounds over and snags Winston by the collar, shooing him back off toward the house.

“In, now.”

The dogs don’t bother testing him, Honey pokes her head past the door frame but doesn’t make it any further. Winston ambles inside and Will glares at them once more before turning toward Hannibal, who’s watching the scene with cool detachment. The puffiness around his eyes has vanished, his skin clear. His roots are appearing however, strands of grey that glint off the light against his scalp, stubble shining silver over tanned skin.

“You look,” Will starts, turning over his words, considering. “Less swollen.”

Hannibal makes a sound in agreement. “It’s settled.” The blemishes around his cheeks are gone, any trace of age or stress vanished within a needle. “The wonders of modern cosmetology.”

“Don’t see the point.” Will looks out, at the ocean pooling across the shore, the froth dissolving into damp sand. “They’ll find you regardless. Anything short of a face transplant seems...” he trails off, thinking. “Redundant.” The word flows easily, and Hannibal takes it well enough, the thinly veiled insult settling among the dust like a glove flung forward. In another lifetime maybe he’d gut Will again, this time starting up the sternum. Cracking his ribs open like a flower in bloom, purging the discourtesy through torment.

“Age weathers youth. The act of preserving ones beauty is now considered an ugly practise, tawdry by any means. Youth is expected to leave us gracefully.”

“Not in your case though,” Will continues, sharp. “You’re attempting to hide.”

“Disguising the nuances. The slightest of changes can make all the difference; sometimes it’s the most obvious of modifications that condemn us.”

“You’re not exactly unrecognisable though. Do you expect to waltz out of Florida as easy as you came in?”

Hannibal smiles, just shy of a smirk which irritates Will. “Considering you haven’t confided in Jack yet, I doubt it’ll be that hard.”

Will bristles. “Big assumption.”

“Not entirely incorrect though.”

Things feel heated, altogether too tense for a settled discussion and it takes a considerable amount of willpower not to fling himself into the sea. Will fiddles with his hands, feeling the nails bite into his palms as he watches Hannibal.

“What is this?” he says after a moment, categorising the glance of surprise under the man’s mask, tucking it away for later use. “You come here, we talk, you leave. What do you want?”

As clear as Hannibal’s skin presents itself, the flush of stress is still evident beneath the surface. It doesn’t weather away his appearance, just as much as to disguise the initial recognition. Will recognises Hannibal as he is, in his entirety; the image doesn’t change, despite appearances.

“Our discourse sets its path organically. We always end up in the same position,” Hannibal muses. The wind tousles his hair, his collar damp from the heat. “It’s cyclical.”

“Very,” Will assents, tired. He rubs his eyes, sparing a thought for the few bottles of beer left in his fridge. Enough for the evening perhaps, if he paces himself.

“I was sincere when we last met.” Hannibal is watching him, his head tilted enough, presenting himself as disarming as he can allow. It’s an honest gesture and Will hates the way it makes his blood thicken. Hannibal’s frankness is uncharacteristic, manipulative in its simplicity and he doesn’t know how to approach it.

Will nods. “Of course you were. Hannibal Lecter, heartbroken.”

Hannibal’s eyes tighten and he stiffens imperceptibly. “That’s rather candid.”

“Don’t you appreciate forthrightness?”

“Within certain elements.”

Will turns to Hannibal, serious. “You’re attempting to manipulate me. I don’t appreciate that.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?”

Hannibal takes a moment to consider the thought. Will feels augmented, stoked to flame. His bitterness flares just beneath, threatening to spill over. Hannibal’s admission of love caught him unaware, but not completely blind. Will knew enough about Hannibal’s regard in terms of their relationship, and he can’t say he didn’t add to it on occasion. It makes him squirm now, his scar itch. It niggles at him and his hand flies to his stomach, kneading the skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. Hannibal follows the movement with his eye, staring at the crease in the fabric, the knowledge of what’s beneath searing between them.

Will grits his teeth, sweating. “Stop.”

Hannibal averts his eyes. “Is it bothering you?”

“Why are you asking that?”

“Will.” It’s another warning. A second strike perhaps. He’ll leave, Will thinks, he’ll leave and never come back and I’ll never see him again. That’s the punishment.

“Why are you talking about this, about your feelings-” Will starts, words firm, brittle. It rushes from him like an afterthought, messy but articulate enough. Hannibal’s jaw twitches just so. “When you’re the one who cut his losses and ran?”

“You were going to condemn me,” Hannibal replies, stoic. “Leave me in a cell. Is that what we would have been? A presence behind glass?”

_I called you though. I warned you. Wasn’t that enough?_

_Did that not absolve anything?_

“There’s no we,” Will states, somewhat cruelly. “There never has been. And you’re forgetting that you put me in a cell first. Or is that just semantics?”

“I wanted you to grow, to come into yourself.”

“To fulfil my potential,” Will recites. “Did it work?”

Hannibal smiles slightly, a crook to his lips that tether on the verge of sadness. “You were remarkable. More than I could’ve imagined. The ending was unprecedented, but I could not predict the outcome, or my reaction by its conclusion.”

The sea rushes louder, the waves overlap and propel forward a few inches more and Will wants to walk forward, one step at a time and not think about consequences. Walk into the sea and let it envelop over him and carry him somewhere dark and somewhere where it will fill his ears and his lungs and stop everything, if only for a moment. These talks with Hannibal feel like flagellation, he’s on his knees, there are stripes of flesh pooling around his feet, each one a memory better left dead.

But fuck does it hurt. It rips into him, like teeth sinking into skin, like the gaping maw of Randall Teir, his teeth ripping a hole into Will’s chest, diving into the cavity. And Hannibal holds his ribs open, opens him up for others and let them sample.

He’s given enough of himself to feel hollow now. There are pieces missing, bits torn and ragged and he hasn’t the energy or will to fix that.

Hannibal’s trying though. He’s trying something, whether out of anger or love, Will doesn’t know- he wants him whole again.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Will says eventually. The words sag, rush forth with no particular order or thought. The panic boils into something molten and it shivers like echoes over water. “Why-why you’re doing this.”

Hannibal turns fully, facing him. A hand reaches out and fingers blister into his bicep, gripping gently. “You know why I’m here.”

Will’s teeth rattle and he feels gaping. “I have nothing to give you. There’s nothing left of me. You took it all without permission and everything else-” Will cuts himself off with a laugh that bubbles up before he can catch it. He’s almost doubles over with the force of keeping composed and it hurts, every nerve, every fibre, every thatch of skin burns under Hannibal. “Everything else I burned when I killed Randall Tier. There’s nothing left for you.”

“You believe I’m here to take the rest,” Hannibal states and he’s much closer now, Will can feel his heat. For a brief moment he thinks Hannibal is going to touch him again, grip his face tenderly in his hands and that thought lodges his heart in his throat. “Sever it from you.” Will straightens just so, and the flesh on his arm brushes against Hannibal’s shirt. He turns and Hannibal’s eyes are on him, he is trapped in his gaze. “Christ knew Judas would betray him. As I knew you would by the end. There was only so much one could ask of you, your loyalties were torn, as was Judas. Some consider his actions just, as it enabled the salvation of humanity.”

Will focuses on a point below Hannibal’s eyes, on his cheek which is glossy from the humidity. “What have we enabled then?”

Hannibal pauses, gives it a moment for the words to settle. “Perhaps a restart. A chance for recovery, as it were, something that could be mutually beneficial.”

Will considers this, pokes at the thought and turns it over in his head. A memory surfaces. Both of them sitting by the fire, lamenting over a fatherhood that was not theirs but desired nonetheless. The irony is palpable. Will doesn’t doubt Hannibal’s intentions toward him, not more so than he ever doubted Hannibal’s plans to morph him into something unrecognisable. They’re on even ground now, the footing is level.

They’re too close, personal space has been violated. It feels strange enough and Will steps away, feeling the chill that overcomes him from Hannibal’s absence. His skin prickles, and he recognises the beach, the house just behind, the dogs sitting on the porch, watching both men with subdued curiosity. Will looks back at Hannibal, at his face and the changes- the clothes that create indefinable shapes that don’t fit him. Like a peacock with plucked feathers Hannibal is disguised beyond circumstance.

“Jack wants me to look at the case,” Will says and the words feel odd, formless. He nudges at the shape of his next sentence, tests it, and says it anyway. “Get back in the game. This guy’s smart apparently.”

Hannibal takes Will’s subject change in his stride and adapts. “I’d imagine so. Are you quite prepared for the monsters Will?”

Will snorts. “As long as they’re not you.” He realises that could’ve come across as tasteless and glances over at Hannibal, who remains impassive.

  
“Do you see me as a monster?”

What a loaded question. How is he supposed to answer that? He shakes his head, and keeps their gaze connected through sheer force of will. “No.”

Hannibal nods, and tucks a strand of hair back against his ear, composed. “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”

“Jung?”

“Nietzsche. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

“You saw to it that I became a monster. You enabled a metamorphosis, one I had no consent in,” Will says, accusing. Hannibal smirks.

“Was it not consensual? You killed Randall of your own volition. I had no part in that.”

“You sent him to my house, what other option was there?”

“I had propelled you into a certain direction, in order to entrap me however you had transformed yourself. You attempted to appeal to my nature.” The sharpness of Hannibal’s response left Will feeling slightly puzzled but he didn’t pursue it. “Did you think I would not notice? The change in attire, the way you carried yourself. You were fully aware of your actions.”

Will frowns in surprise. “And the seizures? Removing all my autonomy? That was my doing was it?”

“Those were by my actions and I attest to them. By all else, you were aware and fully in control of yourself. It was your choice to pursue me. By your actions and words, I was convinced you were...” Hannibal trails off, and Will is started by the force behind his words, as someone so usually composed, Hannibal sounds uncharacteristically disturbed. “I was convinced that were equals. In all senses.”

Will looks away, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “It wasn’t that.”

Hannibal hums, a noncommittal sound that carries off somewhere far. “Perhaps you are unable to recognise it now. I do wonder if you were ever genuine, or if it was mere hopefulness on my part.” He sounds almost wistful and it hurts, stings Will like needles raking over skin. Hannibal gathers himself, and Will catches the image, watching him as he collects his bearings and readies for the goodbye.

“In any case,” Hannibal starts. “Your monster does not want to be found. At least not so soon.”

Will runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Hannibal follows with his eyes. Maybe he can smell the grease at Will’s roots, his unwashed skin, the beer on his breath. What does he see in me, he thinks almost desperately, what is it, what’s there? “Do they ever?”

“Occasionally.” Hannibal smiles, all teeth. “By the right person.”

“I doubt this one will.”

“You’d do well to find him before he finds you. He wouldn’t be entirely unrecognisable. The penchant for disguising the eyes yields so much.”

He’d cut the eyes out, Will considers, going over it in his mind, gathering what little information he had from the articles he’d looked out. Disguising them, hindering sight, or the image of it.

“He’s disfiguring them,” Will comments. “He doesn’t want them to see him.”

Hannibal nods. “Consider the possibility of what sight does. He’s covering for something.”

“Himself.”

They both look over at the house, squinting as the sun bears down. Will is tired. He wants another beer, or three, and sleep. He wants Hannibal gone, but then he doesn’t. The thought is laden and heavy and altogether too strenuous for consideration. It makes him ill.

“Where are you staying now?” Will blurts, and it takes him by surprise. “Where are you going?”

Hannibal regards him softly, fondly almost and Will is taken back to the times when they were simple. When he was ignorant and they shared breakfast under the dewy morning sun.

“I’m not too far,” Hannibal responds genially. “I won’t stray beyond the state.”

“Until?” Will asks, knowledge of Hannibal leaving irritating, an itch just under his skin that won’t abate.

“Until it calls for it.”

That’s as much as he can get Will assumes, and he takes it gladly. He nods and it’s dismissal enough, watching Hannibal ascend up the beach toward his car. He wonders idly if the man is lying, if he’ll leave and find another like himself or Bedelia. If it’s possible for Hannibal to love another however, Will still isn’t entirely sure the sentiment is genuine. The doubt eats at his insecurity and he knocks it down until it’s wrapped tight in his gut, unacknowledged but festering all the same.

He sighs and goes back inside. Distantly he can hear a car leave. It leaves him cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are worth gold to me! Hope you liked it! 
> 
> Also you can find me on tumblr at http://sparkle-croc.tumblr.com/ :) Come say hi! <3


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